


A world where it's always June

by Humanlighthouse



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Anne is an angel, F/M, Fluff, Gilbert Needs A Hug, Gilbert learns to deal with his depression, Homecoming, Ignores s2, Post Season 1, Shirbert, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, canon-typical angst, cute kids in love, post S1, some angst i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-05-21 02:38:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanlighthouse/pseuds/Humanlighthouse
Summary: Gilbert comes home.





	1. The road home is as good as any

Gilbert had meant to come home for spring.

It hadn’t been a conscious thought, not really, not for a long time.

It had taken him long to realize that he hadn’t so much left to see the world and honor his father’s wishes as much as had fled this land they had walked together, and the memories they had made there.

Gilbert treasured those memories, but like all good treasures, sometimes they had to be buried in a chest and left alone.

He knew he would dig them up later. He would follow the map and find his way home someday.

 _Someday_.

Like the prick of a thorn, this word broke the fragile envelope his mind had protectively spun around another memory, and thoughts of Anne bled into his heart. He breathed out slowly, letting the pain flow through him without resistance.

At first he had willed himself not to think of her. His heart had been too sore to bear the weight of yet another ache.

And yet, in the quiet moments he had poked and prodded at that ache, it had been a comfort, a familiar sort of longing that anchored him to the boy he had once been. He treaded carefully around those memories, only allowing precious few moments to filter through his consciousness – a smile, a handshake, a shared glance. Others he avoided completely, but all of them sat inside of him, heavy and present, a part of his own internal mechanism as indispensable as the bob of a pendulum clock.  

For months, he had walked that razor edge between amnesia and pain, with only the occasional cut that left him breathless and hurt in his lonely cabin, to patch up the wound and walk out again bravely at sunrise, but one day, he was surprised to find himself jumping joyously aside.

He had been watching a sunset over the brick-colored sea that spilled the shade of her hair all over his own skin, beautiful and bittersweet, and with a deep sigh, he had known.

It was time to come home.

Now that the idea had entered his mind, there was no pain anymore, just anticipation. He was on his way. It didn’t matter that the ship he was on was approaching the coast of Spain, his head was already full of apple blossoms and green fields of grass, and _her_.

He was the first off the ship, volunteering to tie the moorings, and running off as soon as he could to the harbor offices in search of a ship going back.

The sun had set, and he had found the offices closed for the night. Frustrated and impatient, he had returned to his cabin for a sleepless night of staring at the dancing shadows on the ceiling and imagining his triumphant return. In the last hours of the night, as the sky above the port turned ink blue and cold, he had closed his eyes and in dreams allowed himself to remember everything. He awoke to a wet pillow, feeling lighter and a little worse for wear, but wasn’t surprised to find a smile on his face as he crossed the streets.

He was going home.

__________________________

The only ship crossing the Atlantic this month was a cargo ship headed for Havana, leaving the next day. Bidding his time, Gilbert said his goodbyes to his shipmates, packed his humble belongings, and walked around the port, enjoying the feeling of good solid ground under his feet while it lasted.

He caught his reflection on a window and tugged at the locks of hair falling over his brow. There was nothing to be done for the dark circles under his eyes, but a haircut would certainly make him more presentable. Opening his wallet, he counted the coins – enough for dinner and a cut.

He was glad to still be young enough not to need a shave too. He had been eager to grow up, once, asking his father repeatedly to teach him the manly ritual. Swallowing thickly, he walked into the barbershop, and lost his thoughts to the smells and ministrations.  

Ten minutes later, he felt years younger. In the mirror, his short black curls and sparkly eyes faced him once again and he found himself smiling.

He was giddy with excitement at the thought of growing back into himself, of coming back better than he had left. All those months, he had hoped to piece some of himself back together – he had jumped from ship to ship, from coast to coast, desperately searching for something to fill the emptiness inside of him with.

He should have known. Avonlea was where things grew.

With a wistful sigh, he thought of his orchard in full bloom. Since he was a boy, he had fallen asleep with his bedroom window wide opened every spring night, the wind blowing fragrant petals onto his bed. He had never been afraid of the dark, and the sweet smell of apples mixing with the salty sea breeze that swept the island had lulled him into innocent dreams of fairytale castles hiding flame-haired princesses.

Exiting the shop, he breathed in the oily stench of the docks with a quiet laugh. He counted the days in his head as he marched over to the new ship. They would reach Havana by late March, and if he was lucky, he could be home before Easter.

He stopped in his tracks.

A vision of the small village church covered in white drapes, a memory of previous Easters, mixed with his current hopefulness and the running thought of Anne - Anne – _Anne_ \-  that had been hammering at his head since yesterday, and he saw her, in a dress as immaculate as fresh snow, her hair long and loose and braided with wild flowers, smiling at him from the altar.

His breath short, Gilbert leaned against a wall, feeling his heart beat in furious, heavy throbs. He hadn’t realized just how much he had been lying to himself, how much he had hidden even from his own mind. Overwhelmed, he closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Deep in his gut, a yearning for home tugged at his heartstrings - for a very specific piece of home that he had missed more than he could have known.

 _Wait for me_ , he prayed in the silent confines of his heart. _I’m on my way_.

 


	2. Every divided kingdom falls

A tan Gilbert walked out of the Charlotteville train, taking in the warm morning air. He paused for a moment on the bench of the station, unaware that he was sitting in the same place Anne had sat an entire year ago - in a different lifetime.

What he was aware of, distinctly aware of, was the shade of the leaves rustling quietly around him, a deep emerald. Bright spring had come and gone, and summer was parading its darker coat around. The road was dusty and dry. In the distance, heat from the high sun was already painting dancing waves above the fields. Breathing in, he could smell the ripening grains, the dead grass, the salt puddles growing by the shore, smells he had known forever.

He was home, he thought - a little late, but home nonetheless. Home at last.

That last leg of his journey from Spain had taken a long detour but it had been worth it. His crops would still be laying fallow, and he doubted Matthew was in any state to make good on his offer of help - not to mention that with the delay in Havana and the train situation in the Carolinas, he had missed the sowing season altogether. Had it not been for that detour, he would be ruined, but the money he had made in a single month in New York would keep him afloat until next spring at least, and it would have been stupid of him to turn down the offer, no matter how much home had called for him. He wasn't a farm boy and that money, more than anything else, bought him time, time to find out what it was that he wanted to do with his farm, and with his life.

He sighed for maybe the fifth time that day, catching his breath without knowing what had robbed him of it in the first place. Something thrummed underneath his skin, a restlessness that made his fingers shake and his foot tap nervously on the ground.

Almost every night before bed, he had imagined this moment. He wouldn’t let himself get much farther than the train station even in dreams, but in his mind this place held so much potential – it had held the promise of something greater than the tracks. If the steamers belching their fumes over Charlotteville harbor had once brought the lure of an infinite ocean, wider than the sky and deep enough to drown any sorrow, their small station was the gate of Jerusalem, and he a humble pilgrim seeking entrance into the sanctuary. 

He had wanted to take his time, then, to savor every second of his return, to turn every step into an act of penitence, but eventually the pull that had brought him all the way here, almost all the way home, became too strong, and he jumped from his seat, grabbed his bag on the floor, and ran down the road.

Lungs burning, he ran and laughed, ignoring the heaviness of his bag as it banged against his back. His head twisted every which way, trying to take it all in at once. He wanted to see every new leaf, every ladybug, to steal them and hide them inside his heart so he would never forget them again. Barry’s pond glittered in the sunlight like the jewels he had seen along Fifth Avenue, nestled in its case of greenery. His pace slowed down as he rounded the corner of their own Avenue, looking up at the trees as if they were buildings. He felt richer for having gone and saw Avonlea in a new light.

Unfortunately, he also saw Rachel Lynde walking toward him in the distance, and all but jumped into the ditch to avoid her. He had a feeling she shouldn’t be the first person he saw on his return. For all that he had learned to appreciate her aggressive care in the wake of his father’s passing, her mind was too practical and the day too magical for them to mingle.

The result of this was that he had to take the longer way home, but somehow, he didn’t mind. The main road was full of too many memories to hold any real significance for him. The woods, on the other hand...

This was where Charlie had stabbed himself clean through the thigh with a branch while they played catch, he remembered as he passed the old oak tree; here, he thought a little farther ahead, Josie had fallen into a puddle of mud in her church dress as she ran after Billy who had stolen her ribbon; and this hollow there was where he had first told Moody about his dad before they left for Alberta. 

He lingered there a moment, arm braced against a trunk. His house was in view just outside of the shade. He was almost there, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to take that last step – to face the home he had ran away from.

He had left the oppressive silence of the empty house for the bustle of the docks; he had left the unchanging, timeless nature of the island for the gigantic growth of the cities, for the light-speed progress of technology. He had sought refuge among monsters of steel and steam, protected by his own insignificance, by the very smallness he didn’t want to feel anymore, becoming a piece of the machine to forget he was a living, breathing boy who hurt. Every step closer to home brought him back to the self he had left behind, and to the memories he had buried with it. Pushing himself back upright, he straightened his spine and took a step forward. He had to face them someday, after all.

He reached the edge of the forest the same way he had reached the edge of town the day he left: one step at a time, trying very hard not to think about what he was doing. Gilbert breached the shade and walked into the light, only faltering slightly when the smell of apples reached him.

As he crossed the first row of trees, his breath shortened, and one by one, memories rose, as relentless and intangible as waves. A world of touches and smiles and songs, an entire life of apple pickings and wood chopping, of goodnight kisses and homework at the dinner table came back to him. The first losses of his family, his mother, his sisters and brothers, had gone by unnoticed by his young mind; but it was with his father that he had learned the kind of person he wanted to be – just like him. Smart. Kind. Generous. Funny. Unafraid.  In one single day, he had lost a parent, a friend, a mentor, a family, and it felt as if each facet of this man he had known was a loss in itself, not just one person to grieve but many, all at once.

He hadn’t cried at the funeral, and even less so after, mad and confused at having been wronged by someone he had expected comfort from. Anne. She was the only person he had wished would come out of the house at the time, but the conversation hadn’t turned out to be what he had hoped – and when did it ever, really, with her? His mood had gone from sour to bitter, and he had left her there, seeking the silence of this very forest instead.

In the days after, he had been too busy to even consider the monumental weight of the changes imposed on him, and by the time he could spare a thought, he had already started digging a hole to bury his heart in. These days, it felt more like a seed sowed in the empty cavity. Something was growing inside of him, complicated and draining and painful, but growing nonetheless. Tears stung at the corner of his eyes now, hot and unfamiliar, and he let them flow silently, hoping they would water this weird plant that he was becoming.

He wept for the childhood that had ended, for the years he wouldn't spend with his father, for all the possibilities, all the moments that would never come to pass. He wept because he was sad and lonely and tired, and because coming home forced him to face just how sad, how lonely, and how tired he had been. He wept because he didn’t want to be sad and lonely anymore, because he was tired of being tired, because he didn’t so much need a hand to help him up as a he wanted a hand to hold his and not let go.

He had slowly sunk to the ground as words flowed back and forth through his head, hunching in on himself against the gnarly trunk of an old apple tree. Knees hugged against his chest, he willed himself to accept this new reality. _He was alone now._

Just as the thought crossed his mind, a voice rang clear accross the orchard.


	3. Down to your soul

Gilbert knew that voice - he knew it, perhaps, better than his own.

It was Anne's voice.

A wet chuckle escaped his lips. Of course it was hers. Who else could miraculously appear during his very worst moments but her.

He was up before he even realized it, scrambling gracelessly to his feet, ears pricked up like a dog on a scent. His bag lay abandoned on the ground while he went after the voice, seeking its source a few rows down the orchard.

 _There_.

She caught his eye like the waters did sometimes, a glitter of color that's come and gone before he could know it, only leaving its negative print like a ghost on his retinas - between the trees, a flash of red, soon lost to the green as she swirled around and disappeared behind the thick leaves.

He followed her without thinking, pulled by an unseen, irresistible force.

It was the same one that had been drawing him to her from day one, rescuing her from Billy, fighting for her attention in class, tugging her braids and searching for her every time he stepped out of the house. He knew it was ridiculous and even, in his more honest moments, a little pathetic, but he couldn't help himself where Anne was concerned. He saw her from afar sometimes, riding with Matthew in the distance or walking to market with Marilla, and each time, he felt himself tugged imperceptibly forward, if only to bask in this little glimpse of her a second longer.

The longing was as familiar a feeling to him by now as the little jump he made whenever someone coughed nearby, a well-walked path in the inner world of his mind. He took it gladly now, following the trail of her voice until - there she was.

Gilbert stood transfixed at the edge of the clearing. Anne was reciting something under the noon sun. Light was everywhere, on the leaves, on her hair, in her eyes. Her dress, plain and simple, danced around her like a costume as she moved, damning the skies and looking out to the horizon. Breaking the moment would have been sacrilegious.

"And though we are not that strength!," she cried, turning away dramatically from the tree she had been facing, "that in old days moved heaven and earth..."

Her voice was now a poignant whisper, and he was transported back to that first day of school. Another sigh escaped him, a happier one. He was glad she had turned a deaf ear to the mockeries of their classmates - the world would be lesser without her passion.

"That which we are, we are," she declared boldly, rising to her full height, "one equal temper of heroic heart, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will!"

Her fist rose to the heavens and Gilbert felt his own heart swell with it. What beautiful words she was saying.

"To strive," she exclaimed, hand falling to her chest ; "to seek," she gestured around ; "to find," she continued, her fist closed again. Finally,  she cried out, "and not to yield!," falling to her knees, a knight victorious.

Her breath was short and she took a long inspiration, before sighing with an audible "Oh!" of delight and letting herself tumble backward onto the grass.

By reflex, Gilbert stepped forward when he saw her fall, and the branch under his foot cracked.

Anne gasped and jumped upright. She stared at him for a while, eyes wide, breathing like a startled rabbit.

"Gilbert!" she finally said, at the same time as he said "Hello Anne."

She repeated his name again, like she had done that day in Charlotteville, and Gilbert thought that he would never tire of hearing her say it.

"What- what are you doing here?" she finally asked. "I mean, this is your home, after all, so it makes sense that you would be here instead of anywhere else but then again, I thought you actually were somewhere spectacular, at sea probably or in the tropics, perhaps even Europe! But of course I didn't mean that you shouldn't be here, in your own backyard or...." she trailed off.

Gilbert smiled throughout her rant, and waved off her strange apology.

"I'm sorry I startled you. That was a beautiful piece," he added sincerely.

Anne's cheeks colored, but she smiled in return. She explained that the poem was actually about Ulysses, the Greek hero, and that she had found it in an antology Diana had been gifted, which she had in turn lent her. It didn't matter that the smile was probably about the book and not him. Gilbert felt it warm the very core of his being like the rays of a second sun.

"Also I apologize for the intrusion on your property, but the smell of the orchard was so scrumptious that I had to follow it to its source!"

"I can certainly sympathize with that," said Gilbert with a smaller smile, a smile for himself.

"I came in and then the scene was so evocative, I started to think of the days of old, and Camelot came to mind. And with it of course that poor Lady of Shalott, but then her embarcation led me to think of Ulysses and his travels and by then the connection was obvious-"

"It was," agreed Gilbert who had no idea what she meant by that. He had long recognized her literary superiority.

"But I swear I just came in, and haven't touched anything!" she hastily added, seeming to remember her manners even when trespassing.

Gilbert shook his head. "You're welcome to," he said, stepping toward her.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes light as the summer sky. He must have grown during the months he was away, because she now had to tilt her head back to look at him, and he found he liked that. He towered over her and she had nowhere to look at but him. If she would just stay still for a second or two, he could even count her freckles - and she looked aside. He swallowed past the knot in his throat and looked away too.

Following her gaze, he saw the red Kazakh tree, one of their most fruitful, covered in bright round apples like a Christmas tree. He snapped one of them clean off the branch and, in a gesture that felt weirdly ritualistic, offered it to her. She looked back at him, mouth falling open, and Gilbert could sense time stopping around them.

Anne blinked slowly, her small hand reaching for the fruit. As her soft fingers brushed his, a jolt of electricity ran through him, shocking him back into his old skin. A grin spread on his face, and he withdrew his hand.

Anne gasped. The grin widened.

"Should I be worried?" he asked, voice low and full of mirth. "Are you concealing a slate on you, miss?"

He could spot the second his words registered with Anne.

He quizzical face broke into a grin to match his own, although she blushed again, a fierce red that rivaled the apple's skin. She snatched the fruit out of his hand and took a vicious bite out of it.

Gilbert laughed, feeling something come undone in his chest as he did so. It had been a long time since he had laughed like this, free as a child.

Perhaps there was a lightness to homecoming as well. Home, he was learning, was not just something you brought with you everywhere you went, to tie you together in the face of the odds, but also somewhere you could bring everything you had become to, all the disparate pieces of you, and be made whole again.


	4. Still the right Promethean fire

 

“You were right!” exclaimed Anne, wiping the drips of apple juice on her chin with the back of her hand. “They _are_ really sweet!”

There was an innocence in her pure delight at the simple things that made him feel younger by association. Anne had seen terrible things, if the gossip around town was to be believed, but none of it had been able to chip at that quiet, delicate strength in her. His own weariness seemed to ease with every new second spent at her side.

“When will you learn,” he teased, sly Gilbert once again, “that I’m always right?”

She leveled a look at him that made his whole body freeze in place. Behind the apple, her coy smile was barely perceptible.

“Then why do I always have to contradict you, then?” she retorted.

He laughed again, a little more nervously than he had hoped to sound. She had always known just how exactly to ruin his smooth façade.

“I think that you’re doing it on purpose.”

“Oh?” she asked, as she turned aside, guiltlessness incarnate.

Another breathless chuckle escaped him as he stepped up to her.

“Yeah. I think you’re doing it just to annoy me,” he declared.

“Is it working?”

She had turned her eyes back onto him, and he only now realized just how close they had become. Much too close for politeness, that much was certain. A small, delighted part of his brain thought that Rachel Lynde would have a cow if she could see them now.

He lost himself in her gaze again, the world around them fading to the background. This time, there was no painful goodbyes hanging in the air, no imminent separation to tear apart his heart before the words even passed their lips. It was a miracle, really. For once, there were no looming threat, no witnesses, no conflict standing between them, just him and Anne, catching their breath in unison in the stillness of the moment.

He hoped she couldn’t see how red his eyes were.

Just as he was about to summon whatever courage still lay inside of him, whatever ember of hunger loneliness had stoked into blaze, Anne seemed to remember where she was, what she was doing, and who exactly it was she was doing it with and took a stumbling step back. The yard of wild grass between their feet might as well have been a mile now, for all the distance it put between them.

Anne opened and closed her mouth several times, but he only heard the first letter of each word, strung out like a strange code. It reminded him of the noise he had heard on Wall Street, the tablets of numbers shaken out until they formed the proper signal – click, click, click. Finally, she spoke, her cheeks red and her glance everywhere but on him.

“I’m- I’m glad you had a safe journey. I don’t think you missed much, being away. For all I love the frost and the snow, winter can be a little dull. Oh, and the rain showers were so heavy in April and May that almost all the church picnics had to be canceled.”

He coughed.

“I, uh... I’m sorry I missed spring. It’s my favorite season.”

“Mine too!” she replied, some of her usual spark filtering that back into her voice. “You should have seen the Way of White Delight. It was so absolutely bursting with flowers we could smell them all the way from the school. I couldn’t concentrate at times, their scent was so strong! I would remark on it every time we passed the windows, and I think even my dear Diana got bored with me, but really, I couldn’t help it,” she explained with a shake of her head.

“I would have loved to see that,” replied Gilbert. He wasn’t sure he meant the flowers.

“It was the most wonderful thing. I meant to write it in a letter, but then I had no address to send it.”

With a tilt of his head and a furrow of his brow, Gilbert asked, voice a little strangled: “You wrote to me?”

“Yes- I mean, no – I mean yes, but... not really. There’s just fragments, since I quickly came to understand that you wouldn’t receive them as they were. But there were things I thought you should hear, or know, and I found myself writing anyway.”

“Oh.”

Again, Anne opened and closed her mouth without a sound, struggling to find a way out of her embarrassment.

“I also have books for you!” she finally quiped.

“Oh?” he repeated, playing along with this fake normalcy. Anything to keep her from running away, as she apparently tended to do when he teased her too long.

“From Mr. Philips,” she quickly amended. “He won’t return after summer. He and Prissy are to be engaged this year, and since she got into Queen’s Academy, he will move to Redmond College to follow her, which would be terribly romantic if it wasn’t...”

“Them.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Some things did happen in my absence, eh,” he remarked.

“I did write about them in the l-”

The end of the word was lost to posterity, as Anne caught herself mid-sentence.

Doing his best to repress the smile that threatened to bloom on his lips, Gilbert continued charitably: “Books, you were saying?”

“Yes! Mr. Philips wanted _his best student_ to have them,” she quoted, venom in her tone.

“So he passed them on to you?” he joked, adding, on a surge of courage, a cheeky wink to his words.

“I will admit to reading them in the meantime.” Her small nose rose in the air. “And he wouldn’t have been wrong to give them to me, because even his unfairness couldn’t keep me from conquering geometry this semester,” she announced proudly.

Gilbert gave a little bow.

“You will have to catch me up, then.”

His stomach felt strangely tense at the idea of studying with her.

“Please!” she begged, surprising him in her earnestness. “Since school has ended, not even Diana wants to hear anything about lessons, and I can’t even pass that as book-club meetings material,” she explained. “I have successfully passed some history into our last one, but it’s only been a week and I can already feel myself forgetting the Pythagorean theorem!”

Pushing his curiosity about this so-called book-club aside, Gilbert couldn’t help but throw a little dart at her.

“I thought you didn’t want my help?”

“I don’t need help, I need to study,” she hastily corrected him. “And technically, you’re the one who needs my help now.”

He knew she would retaliate, mean as a scorpion when she felt herself on uneven footing, so Gilbert’s only option was to surrender. He raised both hands in a show of peace.

“I’ll gladly admit to that. We can study here once I’ve cleaned the house,” he offered. “I would be glad to spare Ruby and Diana the torture.”

At the mention of her friends, something seemed to change in Anne. All the energy drained out of her, and she took a second step back, distancing herself from him even further, even though they were still alone in the clearing. It felt as if the outside world had intruded again at the mere mention of names, and Gilbert wanted to swallow back the joke. He could recognize them easily now, these moments just before Anne ran, when she closed herself to him and prepared to bolt. He had to make the seconds count.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he stated, not leaving her much of a choice.

“I- yes,” was all he heard Anne say before she turned tail and exited the clearing.

“Bring the letters!” he yelled after her. He knew she had heard, just as certainly as he knew she would pretend to the contrary the next day.

Alone again, he smiled. Bathed in the clean-cut light of the afternoon, he felt like an actor on stage, the theater deserted, the seats empty. He had said his piece.


	5. Food and fire for the mind

The night had been long, and it hadn’t been kind.

Gilbert had spent most of it awake, listening to the silence, and learning anew the ways of the house. Every hour or so, a noise made him jump, before he remembered it as the howling whistle of the wind in the fireplace, or that one beam on the front of the house that always cracked as it settled into the cold of the night.

He was exhausted, and yet he couldn’t sleep. Nothing, not even grief, kept him company in his loneliness. While the sun was still high, the house had been full – and wasn’t that a metaphor, he thought bitterly as the first birds began to chirp with the approaching dawn.

Mrs. Kincannon had come by in the afternoon to check on the house, as she apparently did every few days. She had had the fright of her life when Gilbert had come out of the open door. After she apologized for wacking him with her wicker basket (“Poor dear, I thought that racoon had gotten in through a window again!”), she had promised to come back later in the day with some groceries. She had probably met Rachel Lynde on the way, or word of mouth spread faster in town than in did before; either way, by the end of that afternoon, almost every housewife in Avonlea, and maybe even in the next town over, had brought him a dish, along with the same kind, meaningless words. The left side of his face was still sore from having been pinched so muany times. By dinnertime, however, all of them had safely gone home to their families, spending a quiet evening together, while he stayed alone in this house where the shadows only darkened as the night fell. He tried, without much success, not to resent their happiness.  

He could smell some of the dishes from his room. By first light, he threw back the covers and gave up on sleep altogether, padding barefooted to the kitchen and breaking off a piece of sweet bread. He watched the dawn drag her pastel dew over the fields, shivering as he chewed pensively. A rustle in the bushes drew his attention. He spotted a black nose and two little hands digging through the leaves. Gilbert opened the door and, with a small nod, threw the rest of the bread to the racoon, who grabbed it and disappeared almost instantaneously.  

Turning back inside, he finally put on socks, and lit the hearth, heating some water. Among the care packages he had received the day before were at least five different boxes of tea, but Gilbert ignored them and went back to his room to rummage in his bag. He extirped a tightly wrapped package from its insides. Bringing it to his face, he inhaled deeply, mouth watering. A souvenir from Cuba, this coffee was stronger than the one usually found on the island. Most sailors drank gallons of the stuff, but it had taken Gilbert a few weeks to stomach more than a cup, so bitter was the beverage. By now, he had learned to love it, and had bought a pound with his last penny in La Havane.

A part of him had known he would need something to remember his travels by, something to escape again, if only through his tastebuds, when whatever had driven him away from home in the first place threatened to overwhelm him again. It felt like one of these dances they learned as kids for midsummer – one step forward, one step back, keep on the line. He wondered if it would ever quiet down, this voice inside of him that screamed constantly, urging him to run, run, _run_ , to always long for somewhere else.

Half of the pot had evaporated by the time he took the water out of the fire, almost burning his hand in the process. He watched the coffee drip slowly through the filter, the thick earthy smell filling his nose. He lapped impatiently at the cup when it was finally ready and scalded his tongue.

Running a shaky hand through his hair, he got up from his chair and paced around the table. He tried to breathe slowly, repressing the words that came to mind, before realizing that, after all, he _was_ alone, and could swear like a proverbial sailor if he damn well wanted to, and promptly did so. He screamed obscenities at the cup in three different languages, feeling inexplicably better after a particularily long and inventive string of curses.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, he laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. He laughed clear and loud, as if laughing at the very face of the odds.  

A dizzy spell came over him, and he almost fell over. Panting, he found his way to an armchair in the living room. As he tore off the fabric covering it, he discovered his father’s old plaid blanket, tossed in a small red bundle underneath. The familiar smell seemed to wrap itself around him along with the blanket. Warm at last, he curled up on the chair. He was asleep as soon as his head touched the armrest.

 

Gilbert awoke with a start and promptly landed on the floor. It took him a second or two to find his bearings, before his ears even registered the insistent knocking at the door.

"I'm coming!" he called out absently, blinking sleep away from his eyes.

Behind the door, he was greeted with a pink-cheeked Anne, smiling nervously at him. His heart stuttered.

"Hi Gilbert," she greeted.

He coughed, running a hand over his shirt, standing a little straighter.

"Hi," he said, voice hoarse.

Without warning, Anne pushed the pile of books she had been carrying into his arms. These were two of his favorite things, usually, Anne and books, but he wasn't ready to appreciate either given the state he was in.

"Your books. I mean the ones Mr. Philips sends," she explained with a tilt of her head.

"Oh," he said, considering the pile. "Thank you," he quickly added, his eyes flitting back to her.

Anne was looking at him, and he wished he had taken a second to fix his hair or washed his face or _something_ before opening the door. He suddenly remembered he had asked her over yesterday, and moved aside to let her in.

To his surprise and - loathed as he was to admit it - relief, she shook her head.

"I can't stay, I'm sorry. Marisa needs everyone to help prepare seedlings at home for the winter squashes. She’s been talking about it for weeks, but it had completely left my head yesterday when I met you, and I hate to break a promise, but she does have the prior engagement-"

"Don't worry about it," cut in Gilbert. He wasn't as disappointed as he thought he might have been. He might have been a blind man praying for the light, but that didn't mean he wanted to stare at the sun directly.

"Maybe you can look the books over in the meantime?" she offered.

He nodded.

"Well, I... I have to go."

He took one last look at her, her blue eyes wide, an apologetic smile pulling at her lips. She was a sight for sore eyes, much as the vision stinged him. A quiet part of his brain sighed at the cliché.

"See you," he finally managed to croak out.

She was already halfway accross the yard when she responded. "See you tomorrow!"

Only then did Gilbert realize that he had been holding his breath, when it left him suddenly in a small happy laugh. This was something to look forward to. Just enough light to find his way by, he thought to himself, finally shutting down that pesky metaphor.

Closing the door with a swing of his narrow hips, he looked for a clean place to put down the books. They ended up wedged between a shepherd's pie and his cup of coffee that had long gone cold. He turned away without knowing where it was he had meant to go, then turned back, and downed the cup. No point in wasting such a good brew. His tongue curled at the bitterness that had only accumulated the longer the cup was left alone, and he swallowed reflectively a few times.

Sitting back in the chair, he ran a finger along the spines of the books. He didn't recognize any and an old excitment lit up in his chest at the prospect of discovering new ideas and new worlds. The first day he had stepped on a steamer had felt like that too; but after months of hard physical labour, he yearned for intellectual exercise.

The books were covered in bright fabrics and they shone like jewels in the middle of the house. Everything else around was white - the towel-covered dishes piled on the table, the empty cup, the sheet-protected furniture in the next room. On the spur of the moment he rose and uncovered the sofa and coffee table. Moving swiftly through the rooms, he removed every protective fabric he could see, tearing some of them off with perhaps a little more force than necessary. He got tangled up in a large one covering the buffet, and wrestled it like, he liked to think, he would an actual ghost.

Once the phantasmatic carcasses we piled in a corner of his room, to be sorted out later, Gilbert went back to the living room and continued cleaning as he went. One chore followed the next seamlessly, and he fluttered from one to the other like a - well, like a junebug, he thought with some amusement, smiling as he scrubbed the sink. Once the sink was spotless, he piled the empty dishes on the side and took the full ones to the cold room. He wiped the table, careful not to touch the books with the wet rag, but then spotted the fire dying out in the hearth and went out to collect some more wood from the shed. He took twice as much as needed and brought some to the fireplace too. Because the sofa was in his way he pushed it, with the newfound ease of his growing body, under the window. Looking to said window, he drew the curtains aside, opening it wide. As the heat of the day built up, the cries of morning birds were being replaced by the rythmic chirp of insects in the tall grass, and by the soft rustle of the leaves. He stood for a minute, kneeling on the sofa, eyes closed, enjoying the warm, scented breeze on his face. Standing back up, he went and opened every window in the house – every window except for one.

A room had been spared from his methodic cleaning. It wasn’t that it had escaped his notice, rather the opposite. From the moment he had set foot again in the house, that door had remained closed and he wasn’t sure he would have the courage to open it again any time soon. Behind the dark, flat wood, his father's room rested, untouched and unseen. No one had stripped the bed, per his orders, and he was pretty sure no one had set foot at all in the room once they had removed the body. The door had closed, not on John’s room, but on John’s life.

A deep part of his brain knew this wasn’t healthy, but most of the others didn’t give much of a damn about health. Coming back to the house was one thing. This closed-off room, dead center of the house, mirrored the one in his heart, this tiny locked-up place where he kept his secret sadness. People knew he was grieving, but they didn’t _know_. No one had known his father like he had, because he was the only child left of John’s. He wasn’t sure if he wished his siblings were still here to share his pain – he wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone.

So he turned away from the door and marched down the hallway, letting the air flow around him from all sides of the house. He was tired, not the same kind of bone-deep exhaustion he had felt this morning, but a clean sort of used-up energy, the tiredness of honest work. He washed the sweat off his forehead over the sink, scrubbing the itchy dust off his arms too. Not bothering with the stove, he removed the cloth off one of the dishes and ate it directly in the dish, leaning against the table, his spoon scrapping the sides of the porcelain. Once empty, he left the dish in the sink, having cleaned enough for one day.

He sighed contentedly. Nothing feels too dire on a full stomach, his dad used to say, and Gilbert found that he agreed. He washed his hands scrupulously before taking the first book off of the pile that still rested on the table, an antology of poetry, and went to the living room.

As he sunk on the sofa, sunlight sparkled in the leaves just outside the window. The hot wind carried the sultry scent of apples, when colder drafts brought the musty smell of shaded thickets.  Summer was coming. Warm and full and satisfied, he opened the volume and lost himself in the rythm of the lines.


	6. Dreams are true while they last

Gilbert had read all afternoon, with only a few interruptions from visitors wanting to see the prodigal son for themselves, which he greeted politely. Like the day before, the visits stopped around dinner time, which incidentally caused him to forget to eat altogether, since there was nothing distracting him from his reading anymore. He didn’t mind.

A little after eight, just as he sat back on the sofa after closing all the windows, he stumbled at last upon the poem Anne had been reciting. He had guessed that the book hadn’t been meant for him when he had first opened it and found in beautiful calligraphy the name Diana Barry written accross the front page. Anne must have taken the whole pile at once off of her nightstand, or wherever it was that she kept her books; but however it was that the volume had come to be in his possession, he wasn’t, like her, above reading through the pages before giving it back, especially not after her praises of the poet.  

She was right, too. Anne had good taste in literature, he shouldn’t be surprised - not that he was, not really, but a silent sort of gasp always escaped him when he encountered great poetry. The words flowed through his mind, at once both solid and ethereal. The worlds they painted were enchanting, and it was happily that he wasted the day away strolling through them.

He paused, sometimes, savoring a turn of phrase or a particularily beautiful image, satisfied to know that the lines would still be waiting for him when his mind returned to them, eternal and forever welcoming, as books were meant to be. He knew some of the stories, but his previous knowledge only deepened his appreciation for the new ways the poet found to tell them, spinning anew what had become tarnished gold into a tapestry of magnificence.

On one of these pauses, Gilbert reflected on this: poetry made his mind feel grander. The words that echoed from that voice in his head were different when he read; even his ideas were. Compared to the trials of heroes, his life had been more or less ordinary, but the emotions they felt, he knew too, and their despair became his, their courage became his, and he too became a hero when he read.

He cried with the widowed princess who had to face the world alone, and for the Lady of Shalott, for her lovely freckled face, and for the divine grace that couldn’t save her. When he dreamt of Arabian Nights in the late afternoon, it was of apple trees in bloom and of a silver crescent moon reflected with the ink blue sky into Barry’s pond. One by one, he made the poems his, lending them a part of his heart.

But as the evening settled slowly into night, Venus already glittering between the pink clouds, he stumbled upon familiar words. He didn’t know how he was so intimate with them without having read Tennyson before, but they struck him violently and without warning, and he found himself reading slowly, breathless and confused.

Ulysses was an old friend, having left home on a quest himself. During a particularily long morning at work in New York, he had spoken of Avonlea as his very own Ithaca, but the man he was working with at the time had grumbled “Thought you were Canadian,” before resuming work, and Gilbert had given up. This Ulysses, however, was different. He was...

He was him.

“I am become a name; for always roaming with a hungry heart,” read Gilbert aloud, the words vibrating in his chest. “This gray spirit yearning in desire to follow knowledge like a sinking star beyond the utmost bound of human thought,” he continued, forcing his voice to hold steady when his lungs seemed constricted and empty. “For my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars, until I die.”

Was he his father’s Telemachus, he wondered, lost to the worship of different gods? Had he been wrong to return to their Happy Isles?

When, finally, he reached the last lines, Gilbert recognized the sounds, and this weird, unsettling emotion filling his throat changed. As the vow was spoken, he heard Anne’s voice. The memory reached out to him like an embrace. He read them again and again, hearing her a little clearer every time.

He went on to the next poem, her voice still ringing in his hears, and _he could hear her_ reading it to him. As the night went on, the rhymes turning to lullabies, until it was her voice that put him to sleep. Held in the warmth of his father’s blanket, nuzzled against the soft fabric of the sofa, her presence besides him, he slept, his loneliness forgotten for the first time.

 

When Anne knocked, the next day, the sun was at its zenith. Gilbert had been in the kitchen, putting away the remnants of a late breakfast, and he smiled as he went to open the door, knowing who awaited him on the other side.

On the table behind him, he had placed the book, which he had finished this morning. He was glad to be such a fast reader; he wouldn’t plead innocent if she asked whether or not he had read it, but at least he could return it quickly, even though it appeared she already knew most of it by heart.

His hand paused on the handle, watching her shadow dance behind the glass panel. He felt as if he had spent every hour with her since yesterday but seeing her was another thing altogether. He took a long inspiration, prepared to have his breath taken away.  

She turned to him as the door opened, having been distracted by something he couldn’t see. Her braids whipped around her face, and she smiled too.

“Hello!” she greeted. “You look better than yesterday.”

Gilbert felt his eyebrows scrunch up in amusement, and he stepped aside to let her in.

“Hello, Anne.”

“I don’t mean-” she said, and stopped, because she had turned around to speak to him just as he was stepping into the house and had found herself very close to a very speechless Gilbert, who was gaping at her proximity like a fish out of water.

Once they had blinked a few times at each other, life resumed, and Anne turned back to the kitchen, taking a seat at the table.

“I apologized if I sounded insulting. I just meant to say that you looked extremely weary yesterday.”

“I guess I was" he evaded. "How did the... seedlings go?” he asked, his memory too close to overflow to function smoothly. It felt to him as if ages had passed since the last time she had been here.

“Oh, very well, I think. Marilla seemed satisfied, even though she’s had to reprimand me constantly for not working faster.”

“Why?” he asked with a frown. He had helped with the seedlings on this farm not a year before, there was nothing complicated to the procedure.

“I just kept getting distracted by how very miraculous all of this is,” she answered, gesturing around. “From these minuscule seeds will grow enormous pumpkins, which will contain the exact same seeds to make other pumpkins, and so on, forever! Doesn’t it seem miraculous to you? I so love living on a farm," she sighed. "Everyday, I see miracles happening all around.”

“It does seem amazing when you put it like that,” he agreed.

“Marilla said that this was the way life went, and that if I wasted time thinking about it every time I saw a seed, my own would pass me by. But I’m not sure I mind, it seems like a nice way to spend a life” she added pensively. “And I think Matthew agreed with me.”

A fear that Gilbert hadn’t known he was feeling disappeared as she spoke the name. “How is he?” he asked anxiously.

“He’s...” Anne paused, and took a long inspiration.  “He’s fine,” she said and nodded solemnly, as if she was still trying to convince herself of the fact.

When she noticed the worry lingering on Gilbert’s face, she explained: “He went to see a doctor in Charlotteville a few weeks back, who confirmed that his heart was back to normal. He is still... slow,” she said, and Gilbert heard the “weak” she was loathed to pronounce, “but the doctor said that the more time goes by, the more he is certain of making a full recovery, so that’s... good, I suppose."

She gave a nervous chuckle.

“It’s hard to believe anything happened, sometimes. Things seem so _normal_ now. But sometimes I catch myself thinking about it and then it’s like there is something... sitting on my shoulders, weighting on me, and I can’t stop my thoughts.”

Accross the table, Gilbert looked at her with seriousness.

“I know,” he said. “I know how that feels.”

“Does it ever go away?” she asked. In that moment, she sounded very young, but her eyes looked much older.

“You find ways to deal with it,” he answered truthfully. Then he added, with a small knowing smile: “You think about the miracles.”

She smiled back at him, her face lighting up, and that was a miracle in itself, alright. 


	7. Just you and me within these walls

In the silence, there was music.

Neither he nor Anne spoke as they leafed through books, eyes scanning tables of content in search of an appropriate subject with which to start their study session. Anne had brought a few other books he wasn’t familiar with yet, so they had divided them evenly between themselves, twin piles to their right hand and a growing pile of discarded titles in the middle.

Hence came the sound.

The rustle of their fingers through the pages reminded him of the ocean breeze dancing through the orchard, a sound that was a million other tiny sounds, like the voice of water. They were fast readers too, so that watery sound came with a rythmic thumping as the volumes fell in their center pile. Brush, brush, thump. Brush, brush, thump.

Gilbert forced himself to focus on the words instead, on their meaning and on the possibilities that lay behind them. Not Geography, he had decided before Anne even arrived. Probably not English either, unless he wanted to turn into a Shakespearian actor the second he was asked to read something. His mind had been bathing in fantasy since yesterday, there was no way he could recite anything without turning into... well, into Anne.

At this, he paused, raised his eyes, and considered her.

She was one of the three things most often on his mind, the other two being his father and his own future, but Gilbert had found that frequency of occurence did not always make for productive thinking. No matter how often he thought of him, mere thought would not bring his father back, merely prolong the months of his agony and Gilbert’s failings as a son; just as no amount of thinking would bring him an epiphany regarding his future, or the unexpected inheritance of a mysterious uncle.

But with Anne, perhaps, things were different. Thinking of her felt like examining a jewel: sometimes he thought of its color; sometimes of its properties; sometimes of the near-cataclysmic forces of nature necessary to produce such a wonder; sometimes he just lingered on how damn pretty the stone was.

But one mystery remained, and that was Anne’s own mind. For all that she was on his, he could never fathom the workings of hers. She seemed to like him well enough at times, while at other she fled from him as from the very plague. But mostly, he seemed to be an afterthought. There was a whole world inside of her, that spilled out in words and flower crowns and poetry, and that world was enchanting. It was inviting. More than anything, he wanted to grab Anne by the shoulders and to beg her, “Take me in! Show me!”

Gilbert realized he had stopped moving when Anne’s eyes snapped to his, and she gasped in surprise. It was probably the lull in their mechanical read-through that had attracted her attention, but Gilbert jumped when their eyes met, as if lightning had hit his spine.

“Sorry!” he found himself saying, without even knowing what it was he was apologizing for.

Anne averted her eyes, biting her lip. He could hear her take another breath in, before she looked up and busied herself rummaging through the rest of her pile of books.

Gilbert reached out for her accross the table. “Anne,” he breathed out, another apology on the tip of his tongue. _Don’t go_ , his heart pleaded.

But Anne was still and deaf to him once again, turning the book she had picked up over in her hands as if to verify that her eyes weren’t deceiving her. Gilbert recognized the small green volume instantly.

“Oh,” he said, a reflex that betrayed whatever claim he had had to ignorance.

“How did this end up here?” asked Anne softly, speaking more to herself than to him.

“You left it yesterday with Mr. Philips’ books,” admitted Gilbert.

Anne nodded, and blinked a few times before looking into his eyes. Finally, she raised the book toward him.

“Do you wanna borrow it?” she offered. “It’s Diana’s but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

It was Gilbert’s turn to look away, a smile pulling at his lips.

“I... I may have finished it this morning,” he answered, tone rising at the end even though there was neither question nor hesitation about the fact.

Anne laughed, and the tension of the moment seemed to evaporate at once. “Already?”

Gilbert laughed too, rubbing a hand on his neck. “Yeah,” he said, “It was just too good to put down.”

Something lit up in Anne’s eyes. “I know! I must have read it thrice since Diana lent it to me.”

“There is just something about rythm in poetry that makes it more...”

“Poignant, I would say.”

“Poignant’s a good word,” he smiled.

She smiled back at him, and for a second all was right.

“I’m glad you forgot this particular book,” he told her just to keep the conversation going. “I had missed reading so much, and this was a great way to get into the habit again. Newspapers and notices don’t really compare.”

“I know what you mean,” she said with an emphatic nod. “The Hammonds didn’t have any books, but Mr. Hammond read the newspaper and I was so starved for words that I would steal glances at it at the dinner table. There was nothing beautiful about economy or politics - oh, except once, there was this fantastic poem printed in the front page, about a raven that foretells the death of man who had lost the love of his life, and the sonority was just glorious. I could never find it again, and when he caught me looking for the paper to copy the poem, he-”

Anne interrupted herself suddenly, dramatically. As Gilbert looked, brows drawn together, Anne put her hands over her mouth as if to physically stop herself from talking.

“Anne?” he called, worried.

She shook her head, the knuckles of her hands white from the pressure. Her eyes looked wide and terrified.

Gilbert rose from his chair and went to her side of the table, hands reaching for her, before he hesitated and withdrew.

Anne shook her head again, drawing her own hands back from her face and putting them flat on the table with some effort. Kneeling besides her, Gilbert could see how tense her body had become, how unnatural her slow breathing was.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I know I shouldn’t talk about that, but sometimes I forget.” The sentence felt unnatural too, as if she was reciting something Marilla had told her to say. A polite excuse.

“Anne,” he said again, placing the hand that wasn’t keeping his balance gently over hers. She jumped a little in surprise but didn’t withdraw her hand. Emboldened by her acceptance, Gilbert curled his fingers around hers and lifted the hand from the table, holding it lightly in his.

Anne’s mouth had fallen open, and she seemed frozen in place. There was still some fear in her eyes, but a glimmer too.

Gilbert felt something rise in his chest, not in the place of the usual warm glow she elicited, but rather on top of it, something fiery and fierce and focused. It wasn’t antagonistic to tenderness, but a companion to it, a protection – the strength of kindness.

So kindly it was that he held her hand, but strongly as well. He held it for a while in silence, their eyes talking a different language, until he felt that words were needed to seal this new bond.

“You know you can tell me, right?” he asked quietly.

She nodded solemnly.

“I’m not sure I want to, but I thank you all the same,” she said. “It just... it doesn’t make sense to me,” she added after a pause. “I always get into trouble when I talk about what happened at the Hammonds’, or at the asylum, and I have been told countless times not to mention anything about it, but it doesn’t... undo it? These things happened, and not mentioning them doesn’t mean they didn’t.”

“I think people just don’t want to feel uncomfortable, and they do when they can’t do anything about a situation,” he said as he rose, their hands falling apart slowly. With a last brush of their fingertips, they were separated.

“No one asked if I was comfortable with it happening!” exclaimed Anne as Gilbert returned to his seat.

Gilbert laughed a little as he sat down. “I know,” he said. “It’s the same with funerals. The day of, people are sweet, but if you mention anything about death in the weeks after, they flee. Most people want to forget the unpleasantness, while we have to live with it.”

“I’m still sorry about-”

“Don’t be,” he cut in. “I thought about that day in the coffee shop a lot. You were the only person to ever acknowledge how awful everything was.”

She smiled at him, until the smile waned into thoughtfulness without disappearing entirely. She seemed to be reconsidering him, as she tilted her head and stared into his eyes. Gilbert felt vulnerable under her scrutiny, but it wasn’t a bad feeling. All he had ever wanted was for her to know him, and to know her in return.

“Hum,” she finally said. “Maybe we are kindred souls after all.” She said it with a laugh, and the words seemed to carry a special meaning for her.

“Of course we are,” he answered. He liked that. Kindred souls. What a beautiful soul that would make of his. “So, are we ever going to study?”

Anne’s mouth was a perfect circle as she let out a delicate and delighted “Oh!” of surprise.

“It’s not my fault,” she protested. “You’re a very distracting person, Gilbert Blythe.”

Gilbert felt his heart skip a beat, but all that appeared on his face was a boyish grin and a cheeky wink.

“Is Math okay with you?” he asked, grabbing the first book to fall into his hands. “I sure could brush up on Geometry.”

Anne may have kicked him under the table, but he pretended not to notice.


	8. Unfolded into the sunlight

 

Everyday life still felt a little illusory at times.

The more reasonable parts of Gilbert supposed that had to do with his lack of a reference frame. He had, all things considered, been quite young when his father had first started showing symptoms. Learning to accommodate his deteriorating health, not to mention the more or less extended visits to what was left of their family, left little time for routine.

With no one left to care for now but himself, Gilbert found himself torn between an exhilarating sense of freedom, and a no less terrifying indecision. The big questions could wait until after the summer, but this ambivalence manifested itself in the smallest things as well. As he settled into this new life, the bubble of transition that had sheltered his arrival was blowing up.

His first days at home, for instance, he had not had to plan a single meal - he had survived exclusively on the dishes brought to him by the generous housewives of Avonlea. But on Friday morning, faced with nothing but a precarious pile of freshly-washed porcelain on the sink and an empty pantry besides, he resolved to go grocery shopping.

The wicker basket was where he had last left it in December. Groceries had been his task for as long as he could remember, only this time, he was only shopping for himself. There was no need to think of dietary requirements, or to account for anybody’s taste but his own. With an incredulous shake of his head, Gilbert realized that he was resenting this newfound freedom of choice; there was something freeing in constraint too, a freedom from thought.

As things were, shopping took him twice as long as it usually did. He paused, he took detours and went from one shop to the next at a leisurely pace.  He was in no rush to get home, after all. Led by a particularly mouth-watering smell, he entered a roaster on a side-street, and left with a tightly sealed bag of Columbian coffee. His special blend had been put away in a cupboard and left mostly untouched since that morning – just knowing that it was nearby in case he needed it was enough to get him through most days.

But being a teenage boy still, he mostly bought bread, potatoes and dairy. An Irish sailor had told him, as they waited together on the docks to board the Spanish ship, that potatoes and cream contained all a human being needed to live – things only went South went there were no more of these. To quiet the nagging voice in his head that sounded a little too much like his dad he added a pound of green beans to his basket.

“Will that be all, sweetheart?” asked the grocer, a short woman he had known from afar forever, as he handed her a fistful of coins.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Alright, you take care now. And I’ll see you at church on Sunday, yeah?”

Gilbert hesitated. This was the second such invitation he had received this morning, and no less than eight people had mentioned church since his return to the village. He hadn’t planned on ever setting foot in the building again after bearing his father’s coffin out of it, but he had no quarrels with the Lord, or with the priest, or with any or the parishioners, and it would be a good way to reintroduce himself to the community. There might still be one or two people who hadn’t heard of the second coming of Gilbert Blythe, so he figured church was the appropriate place for a revelation.

With a hint of a smile drawing his lips up, he nodded.

“I supposed you will. Good day, ma’am.”

Anne came by again that afternoon, and all holy thoughts left his brain as they went through a chapter on the sack of Constantinople. While studying with her in general was made interesting by their respective personalities and the way they challenged one another, Anne’s true strength laid in the stories – in literature, obviously, but also in history, he mused, as she kneeled on a chair, hands raised to the sky.

“Villains!” she cried out. “How dare you slaughter your own brother in the faith!”

With that, she fell dramatically against the back of the chair, her hands clutching an imaginary knife wound in her abdomen from a traitorous crusader. He hadn’t been surprised to see her take the side of the Greeks. There had always seemed to be something in her that revolted on instinct against unjust authority, and while he was more likely to be sly in his own outrage, she could never hide her true feelings. That was probably what he liked most about her – that blunt honesty.

Well, there were a lot of things he liked about her, he thought, as he watched Anne drape herself in a woolen blanket to mimic a burial shroud. With the solstice fast approaching, the temperature had risen more and more every day, and she was already sweating as she laid on the ground, continuing her passionate damnation of the crusades.

Even the hand he pressed against his face couldn’t hide Gilbert’s laughter.

“You’re ruining all the poetry of the moment!” complained Anne, sitting up, her shroud falling away around her. Her hair was a mess, but the dimples in her cheeks betrayed her amusement.  

“I’m sorry, truly, I am,” he apologized, with the worst possible version of a straight-face he could muster. “This is a sight I am sad to see disappear.”

Anne threw the blanket at his head. He was still wearing it as a made-up turban when they said goodbye later that afternoon.

“I’ll see you,” he said with an awkward side nod, the weight of the wool making his neck crick.

“See you!” she replied with a wave of a hand, walking backward across the field. She turned the right way again as she reached the trees. Gilbert watched until the last ember of red had gone from the forest.

Since the house was still somewhat clean – clean enough for him, at least – he spent most of Saturday pulling weeds from the front yard, collecting those early apples that were starting to rot on the ground, and doing the kind of exterior work a house that had been neglected for six months requires.

On hindsight, having to do all these chores by himself while his father was bed-bound meant that he wasn’t lost now that he was well and truly on his own. He knew these things. He could run this house. It certainly hadn’t been fun to do them at the time, and it wasn’t any more fun to do them now, but he was grateful to have had the opportunity to learn these when he did; when he could still ask his father for advice, when he could still make mistakes.

He thought on this as he piled fallen branches in the shed. He thought on it as he raked under the oak tree, pulling sprouted acorns from the soil. He thought on it all afternoon, as he toiled under the blinding sun, so much so that when night fell, and he came back inside, his head was all empty of thought. He washed and ate and fell face forward onto his bed, asleep almost instantly. He had exhausted all of himself and didn’t dream at all.

He was awakened by the rays of the early sun through the blinds and the shrill cries of birds. For a moment, Gilbert remained still, feeling the weariness of his muscles and the quietness of his mind. In a moment of vanity, he flexed his biceps above his head – his arms were sore, but he was satisfied to see them growing.

His satisfaction didn’t last, however. After a solid breakfast and a splash of water to the face came time to dress for church. The clothes he wore yesterday were too dirty to consider and laid in a balled-up pile in a corner of the kitchen, as he planned to wash them this afternoon. But the shirt he wanted to wear had been the right size last year, and today, he could barely fit his shoulders in it, let alone button the front.  With a dejected sigh, he took it off and sat down on his bed.

There weren’t that many options.

In his open dresser were his clothes from last year, all of them inches too small. Half out of his bag was the other shirt he had bought in Ireland, the one that was still half-clean – no, not even. Wide across the sleeve, a charcoal smudge stared back at him as if taunting him to accept reality.

For a while he was tempted to skip church, but in his head, this was like falling off of a horse: if he didn’t get back onto the saddle _now_ , he would most likely never go again, and he wasn’t ready to make such a big decision, especially on such a flimsy basis.

Gilbert fell forward, elbows on his knees, and ran anxious fingers through his hair. He knew what the easy solution was, he just wasn’t sure he had the strength to do this now.

 _Come on, Gil,_ he exhorted himself. _It’s like riding a horse._

On a bout of courage, he stood up and marched down the hallway. He didn’t let himself pause in front of the door, lest it became some mythical monster he couldn’t defeat, and barged right in, opening his father’s dresser and taking two shirts out. He all but ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and retreated back to the safety of his own room. It was only once he was sitting in the middle of his bed, legs crossed under him, that he let himself breathe.

Rather than let his courage run out, he quickly examined the shirts and took the smaller of the two, which was still a good size too big on him, and shrugged it on without giving himself time to think. He was relieved to find it mostly smelled like dust.

On the way to town he ran into the Lyndes, all dressed up and marching in a neat line behind their mother. Gilbert tried very hard not to think of ducklings, or at least he tried not to laugh out loud when the thought crossed his head. He made small talk with Mrs. Lynde as they walked. Gilbert had meant to prepare himself mentally on the way, but her small legs were fast, and they had reached the church before he knew it.

Luckily for him, the building was mostly empty when they arrived. Father Bentley came out to shake his hand when he saw them approaching.

“So good to see you again, son. You know you’re always welcomed in the house of the Lord.”

Gilbert nodded politely and thanked the priest. As soon as he had left, he was replaced by the Gillis widow, who was in turn replaced by the grocer and her husband. Gilbert had expected the commotion, and he responded appropriately, with polite smiles and non-committal words.

What he hadn’t expected was to see three familiar silhouettes walking down the path from Green Gables.

Anne walked up front, hair in plaits and dress neatly pressed, but there were daisies tucked in the ribbons and her boots were wet with morning dew. Behind her, Marilla walked with a straight back, reluctantly holding onto a small bouquet of daisies, with an impatient expression on her face. Matthew held a single flower but with great care, his large hand curled around the stem. He looked at Anne as they walked with an expression that made Gilbert’s chest constrict.

As soon as the three of them saw him, their walk slowed. Matthew waved with the hand that wasn’t holding the daisy, and Gilbert waved back happily, more relieved than he had anticipated at seeing the old man so well. Matthew was such an easy person to appreciate.

Marilla, he had learned to like. Her brusque manners reminded him of his grandmother in Alberta, who hid the same treasure chests of love behind dragon fire. She nodded curtly, and he nodded too, an understanding between their eyes.

Anne stopped walking altogether and smiled at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. The first genuine smile of the day graced his face then, but he didn’t get a chance to greet the Cuthberts properly, as Jane and Josie appeared in front of him and dragged him to see the rest of Avonlea’s golden children.

Tilly and Ruby gave wide smiles and happy waves. His reunion with Billy was more awkward, but most of the tension of the last winter had evaporated. Gilbert was glad for it. He didn’t need enemies now. Moody and Charlie went to embrace him both at the same time, and Gilbert could have cried from that alone. It was only the church bell ringing that saved him from a summer of embarrassment.

He was carried by the crowd as a ship on ocean currents, and ended up sitting in the front pew, sandwiched between Mr. Barry and an old woman dressed in black from head to toe, who spent most of the sermon clutching a rosary. Gilbert couldn’t even see her face, hidden behind a thick veil.

What he was acutely aware of, on the other hand, were the two girls sitting a row behind him. While Marilla and Matthew were in their usual spot, on the second to last pew on the right, Anne had apparently been given permission to sit with Diana and the Barrys in the front.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see them hold hands as they listened, and it took every effort to focus on the priest’s words and not turn back to look at them. He could hear them whispering quietly but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Mr. Barry’s foot shook as he sat next to him, legs crossed. One by one, the pearls of the widow’s rosary passed through her spidery fingers. In the corner, the clock ticked away the seconds.

Even though he went through the motions along with everyone else, rising and praying and kneeling, Gilbert couldn’t remember a second of the service as he exited through the doors.

The heat outside was shocking. In the musty shade of the building, summer had yet to intrude, but as noon rang and the congregation spilled on the front steps, conversations starting again, he swayed, brow covered in beads of sweat in seconds. It seemed he was old news already, as people ignored him on their way home.

He turned on instinct as Anne’s voice rang behind him, but she was pestering Marilla, who stood silent and rigid as a rock.

“But even Diana’s mother says I can go!”

With a roll of her eyes heavenward, as if praying for strength, Marilla took a long inspiration and looked down at her daughter.

“Sunday is a holy day, young lady. It is meant to be spent with family, not... gallivanting outside.”

“But Diana is my bosom friend, doesn’t she count as family?” argued Anne with a pleading expression on her face.

“The answer is no, Anne. Now come along,” she ordered, turning resolutely toward Green Gables.

This time, Gilbert didn’t watch her go. He turned the other way and ran through the woods. He didn’t stop when he reached his house, but ran across the orchard and the fields, and ran until he couldn’t run anymore.

He found himself in a wide clearing, the ground soft and warm, the stark light of noon muted by the leaves. Still panting, he laid down and put his face in the dried grass around him, inhaling the soft dusty scent of earth. He was exhausted without knowing why. The heat surrounded him like a blanket and slowly, he gave himself up to slumber. 

As he slept the afternoon away, his head swam with faces and names and words. When he woke again it was night, the gentle ocean breeze was cool on his face, and he knew what to do.


	9. Roots entwined

The next day Gilbert was hanging laundry outside when his name was called out by a familiar voice.

"Just a minute!" he replied, struggling to get a large sheet over the clothesline.

"Gilbert?" called the voice again. "Gil- oh there you are. Here, let me help you with that."

On the other side of the sheet appeared Anne's face, her hair bright against the white cotton.

He handed one corner of the fabric to her, who pulled until it hung wide and symmetrical in the afternoon sun. Pushing the fabric aside, she smiled at him. "Hello," she finally greeted.

"Hi," he replied, his voice still unsure.

"I didn't get a chance to see you yesterday after church. What a sermon, uh!"

"Um?"

"Didn't you find it exalting?" she asked as they walked toward the house. "I didn't think I would like church quite as much as I do when Marilla first took me, but the Bible seems full of fascinating stories, doesn't it? Every week there is a new one, and it's always terribly tragic, or incredibly heroic. At times I think I should read it for myself, but then again it would spoil the pleasure of the sermons. Have you ever read it?" she finally asked as she sat in what was becoming her usual chair down at the table.

Gilbert put down the wicker basket he had used for laundry back in its place, before taking his preferred seat next to her.

"Actually, yes, I have."

The answer seemed both to surprise and to delight her. "You have?" she asked, as if this were a delicious secret.

"Yeah. When we - before you came to Avonlea, I went with my dad to visit some relatives in Alberta, one of whom was my uncle Joseph. We stayed with him for a week and, believe it or not, he doesn't have a single book in his house."

Anne's face was a caricature of shock. "Not a single one?" she asked, each word emphasized.

Gilbert shook his head. "Not one, except the Bible. Actually," he amended, "he owns seven of them in total, one for each member of his family, including the baby."

"Oh my."

He nodded gravely.

"One day I was so bored I took the baby's copy and started reading. Some parts are more fun than others though," he said, and paused for a second. "I think you'll really like the book of Daniel."

"Who is he?" she asked, leaning forward in her seat. Having her undivided attention focused on him was doing weird things to Gilbert's stomach. He prayed he wasn't turning red.

"A prophet, I believe," he managed to say. "He lived in Babylon for a while? But the interesting thing is the prophecies. There's a giant statue, a man who turns into a beast, then more beasts but fantastic ones this time, with horns and wings, rising from the sea... yeah, I think you'll like it."

"It sounds like I will, yes! I'll have to inquire about that.”

Gilbert smiled in response, already laughing at the thought of little Anne coming up to the priest and asking him about Daniel, though he usually wasn’t objective enough to anticipate people’s reaction to her. The idea that not everybody was as besotted with her as he was still sounded strange to him – to think that some people, like Billy, actively disliked her was near unbelievable.

They set up their books in silence after that, except for a brief exchange:

“Science, today?”

“Science it is.”

The reproductive systems of plants, which Gilbert’s book was about, was not the most fascinating subject in itself, but it certainly shed light on a lot of things they had just learned to do on the farm without questioning them. They were up to date on the curriculum but on mutual, tacit agreement, they had turned the page and started reading ahead.

The day was as suffocating as the one before had been. Almost all the windows in the house were opened. June bloomed around them, and they observed as they read. Anne was admiring an especially beautiful illustration in the book that lay between them, when gilbert realized the drawing was intimately familiar to him.

“Wait!” he breathed out, rising from his chair, before he exited the kitchen. He ran outside, coming back with handfuls of pink blossoms he deposited on the table.

Anne gave a delighted gasp.

“Oh, Gilbert, they’re beautiful!”

A giddy smile appeared on his face despite his best effort.

“Look,” he instructed, laying a flower over the one drawn on the page. Except for their color, they matched perfectly.

Anne’s fingers traced the contours of the petals delicately.

When she turned to him, a dreamy smile on her face, they were mere inches apart. Gilbert went a little cross-eyed trying to focus on her in such proximity and swallowed loudly. Anne’s smile waned. He took a step back, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, but Anne followed him on instinct, matching him as perfectly as she always did.

They breathed out in unison, before hastily turning back to the pages.

“What were we…”

“We should…”

She laughed nervously, as Gilbert ran a hand through his hair.

“Do you want to go outside?” he offered, his focus on their studies lost for good.

“Please,” sighed Anne emphatically, already pushing back her chair.    

They left the house as it was, not bothering to lock it or even close the windows. In the blistering sun of the afternoon, the village was still and silent, and nothing but crickets were heard in the fields.

Without thinking, Gilbert took off through the orchard, Anne following him unquestioningly. He turned back a few times along the way to make sure she was still behind him, but her eyes were on him each time as they waded through branches and jumped over ditches.

As he helped her cross a particularly thick bush, whose broken branches still bore the mark of his passage the day before, she laughed.

“I feel like an explorer!” she exclaimed, holding back the leaves. His arm reached out to guide her.

“Fear not,” he reassured her with a chuckle as their hands joined. “The dangers are few and far between.”

“Well, I should assume you’ll protect me, as the fearless leader of this expedition.” A grin twisted her lips as she said that.

“Our promised land shouldn’t be too far ahead, fearlessness won’t be needed. Come on,” he added with a tug on her hand.

She kept holding on even after they were through. Gilbert looked ahead and pretended not to notice, but he could feel his face heat up in a way that had nothing to do with the approaching summer. He exaggeratedly stepped over roots, if only to hear the excited, breathless little laughs she gave as she landed on her feet.

He stopped as the circle of light came into view, feeling Anne stop besides him by the way her hand curled into his. He was intensely aware of her proximity. He wanted to turn to her, to say something clever, but as soon as she saw the clearing, her fingers let go of his and she ran into the light.

“Oh Gilbert,” she whispered, twirling around, her blue eyes raised to the sky, “this is simply _glorious_!”

He coughed slightly before answering, his throat dry. “I know,” he said, joining her. “I stumbled upon this place yesterday. It was like… a gift from heaven.”

She sat at the border between the shade and the light; Gilbert assumed she was wary of burns with her fair complexion. He sat next too her, too close for propriety, but far enough to keep his heartbeat steady.

“A gift from heaven?” she repeated. “What a romantic description!”

He shrugged. When she kept a curious silence at his side, he continued:

“The thing is, I wasn’t… in the best of minds, yesterday,” he explained in a low voice. He would have been ashamed to admit this to anyone else, but there was nothing in his heart that he wasn’t ready to bare to Anne. “Things didn’t feel real before. But seeing everyone yesterday made it feel as if… as if I was really back for good, now. Like I couldn’t run anymore.”

She nodded attentively.

“I wanted a place to think that wasn’t loaded with memories everywhere, to figure out what I should do next, and I found this,” he said, embracing the clearing in a wide motion. “Gift from heaven.”

She smiled at his words, but her smile didn’t last. She bit her lip, looking away, before she asked:

“Do you regret coming back?”

He took a longer pause, considering the question.

“No,” he finally replied. “But I don’t regret leaving either. It was an incredible experience. There was a moment…” He paused again.

“Yes?”

Gilbert could feel her eyes on him. Editing the story in his head, he turned to her.

“We were approaching the coast of Spain, and the sun was setting…” he started.

The wonder on Anne’s face increased with each of these words. She hung onto every one that came after, listening to his tale with raptured attention.

“Anyway,” he concluded. “The way home from New-York was pretty straightforward after that.”

“What an adventure! And to think that this was just the last part of it... This sounds more exciting than anything I could have ever imagined, and that’s saying something, because I can imagine _a lot_.”

Gilbert nodded from where he had lain on the ground. “Much… what was it? Scope for the imagination abroad.”

“Much scope indeed! I told Marilla once that I wished I could have come with you,” she said, without knowing how much he had wished for it himself, “but as much as I enjoyed your narrative, I don’t know if I could leave my Green Gables. Marilla says I'll tire of it eventually, but I don’t think I could ever have my fill of this place. Well, maybe for a little while…” she mused, falling backward onto the grass.

“I understand," he admitted. "I needed to go, but Avonlea will always be my home.”

Anne turned on her side to face him.

“It is,” she said. “Home didn’t feel complete without you. There was everybody in class but you, it was weird. I kept turning when Mr. Philips called our names, but your seat was empty.”

Turning toward her, Gilbert held his breath.

“Anyway…” trailed Anne, catching her own breath. “I’m glad you’re back.”

They looked at one another in silence for a moment, feeling something pass between them. _How far they’d come!_ thought Gilbert. In her eyes were none of the skittish apprehension he had seen before, nor any of the haughty disdain she had displayed in the first weeks of their acquaintance. They were friends now.

No, not friends.

What was it Anne had called them?

Kindred souls.

 _Whatever souls are made of, yours and mine are the same_ , he quoted in his head, reaching forward.

The tips of his fingers brushed Anne’s, and she gasped softly. They had held hands earlier, palms pressed together, but this was different. This mere contact made his stomach feel hollow and his heart swollen. He felt it beat in his throat, choking the words out of him.

He didn’t dare move, but Anne was bold. She turned on her back again, closed her eyes, and intertwined their fingers in one swift movement. He imitated her after a while, laying down, his eyes closed.

Maybe he hadn’t woken up yet. Maybe this was still a dream.

“Gil?” she asked in a whisper.

“Hum?” He felt sleep cling to him again.

“You’re not going again, are you?”

“Not anytime soon.”

 _Not without you_ , he wanted to add, but that could wait.

“Good,” she said.

He agreed.

 


	10. In the wild garden of childhood

The days kept getting longer, and Gilbert found himself staying awake longer too, if only to glimpse at the night sky that evaded them. He would watch the sun set through the windows and as the last drape of color fell from the sky, he would go outside and roam the orchard, head full of dreams.

As a result of his sleepless evenings contemplating the stars, Gilbert had trouble rousing himself from sleep before half of the morning had gone. And because of this, he had to endure the harsh rays of noon on his walk to the general store.

The solstice was only a few days away. He could feel its approach in his bones, in the heat rising and in the heavy air full of dust. Avonlea seemed under a magic spell. All was still and silent, but life was buried in the shade, bidding its time.

His shirt hung wide open over his undershirt, but he was drenched in sweat already, not ten minutes after leaving the house. He had even thought to bring a straw hat he had found in the shed to prevent sun strokes but was defeating the purpose by using it to fan himself on his walk.

He briefly thought about cutting through the forest to seek protection from the canopy, but it took almost twice as long as the usual way and he didn’t want to be outside a minute more than he needed to in this hellish temperature.

“I should have come home for spring,” he muttered, kicking rocks along the path. “I’m an idiot.”

His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and his words were slurred. Worse, he couldn’t see in front of him without squinting like a lunatic for the glare of the sun reflected on the white road. By the time he stepped on the Avenue, he was cranky and exhausted, and noon was just ringing on the town clock. His eyes stung and watered from the light. It was worse than sunrise on the sea.  

He pushed open the door with a sigh, anxious to get to the shade inside of the store, but in his haste, he found himself hitting a body with full force. The person caught him before he could hit the ground with the ease of habit, already spilling apologies for something that wasn’t their fault.

Despite his sour spirits, Gilbert smiled.

“Hey Moody,” he greeted, picking up one of the onions the boy had dropped. 

“Gilbert! Sorry again, I wasn’t-”

“Nah, this one’s on me buddy. What are you doing here?”

Moody raised the onion. “Mum’s sending me on errands. Says she needs them for the picnic, but we ran out a while ago and my sisters are all in Carmody with dad to get new dresses, so...”

After a little confusion, something lit up in Gilbert’s mind. “Oh, you mean the bonfire?”

Moody nodded excitedly. “I’ve been waiting for it ever since school ended. Everyone’s going to be there! I hear that ...” he drew closer and whispered, “the girls are planning a dance!”

“And why is it a secret, exactly?” asked Gilbert, confused again. “They’ve done one every year.”

Moody paused and pondered the question. “You’re right. Then why did Josie say she would shave my head if I told anyone? Oh no-!” he interrupted himself, hands flying both to his mouth and his hair at once. The onions fell to the ground again.

Gilbert kneeled down to pick them up, head lowered to hide his smile.

“Your secret is safe with me, bud,” he said, handing Moody the bruised vegetables. His mother must know what to expect from her son - at least he hoped she did.

“Charlie and I meant to go help set the tents up early in the day, do you want to come with us?”

Gilbert shrugged. “Sure.” It’s not like there was much work to be done on a farm left fallow.

“Great! We’ll be there around nine. See you Gilbert!”

 _Nine_ , sighed Gilbert internally as he watched his friend exit the store. Deep down he knew it wasn’t a good idea to go to bed so late, but the night matched his mood so well that he was reluctant to let the habit go. Nighttime had a dreaminess to it, a suspension of reality, that led him to believe anything was possible - not to mention it was significantly cooler than this boiling cauldron of a day.

Having picked all of his groceries and more, as the woman forced a bag of lentils and half a dozen eggs into his basket “for a growing boy”, Gilbert took the road home cradling the eggs in one arm and thinking, a little more good-naturedly than before, that by the time he reached his house, he would be holding hard-boiled eggs instead of fresh ones.

Forced to wear the hat to free his hands, he realized that it was easier to see when your eyes were shaded, but significantly less so when the brim of the hat itself fell over them. He walked blindly, cursing his luck every time he stepped into a pothole. He was almost home and laughing alone, thinking about how the eggs had to have turned scrambled by now, when he was stopped by a shadow advancing in his direction.

Tilting his head aside to see under the brim, he was greeted with Anne’s hesitant smile.

“Hello,” she said, tone rising like a question.

“Oh hi, Anne. Sorry, I’ll just...” he trailed off, juggling the eggs and his basket in one hand while he opened the door.

She followed him inside by force of habit but stopped at the threshold to the kitchen. He tilted his head again to invite her in, and she happily hopped to her seat as he put away the groceries.

“If this is a bad time...” she started.

“No, no,” he quickly cut in. “I just wasn’t expecting you today. Not after...”

 _Not after yesterday_ , he finished in his head, his heartrate picking up at the memory.

Anne’s cheeks were bright red, but he figured that had more to do with the sun outside than any shyness on her part.

Anne wasn’t shy.

He wasn’t either – at least, he used not to be. He would be hard pressed to say what he was anymore. He was almost as much of a stranger to himself as he was to others, and the idea terrified him at times.

But the memory of her slender fingers laced with his made his heart stutter and his cheeks color, and he tried very hard to repress the thought that he would like nothing more than to feel them again.

Anne seemed caught off guard by his remark. She ran one of these small white hands over her neck, eyes looking aside.

“Oh- well, Diana has to practice her song for the ceremony, and she wants it to be a surprise. Not even _I_ can be present when she practices.” The idea seemed to vex her deeply. 

Gilbert smile slyly as he sat next to her. “Will you be dancing with the other girls?”

“How do you know about-!” Anne pressed her hands to her mouth in a more graceful version of Moody’s gesture.

“Oh, so it _is_ a secret then,” he said, his smile widening.

“ _Yes_ , and it’s the first time I’m included in one, so can you please not tell anyone else?” she pleaded.

“I won’t,” he reassured her, “but that’s not to say I’m not deeply curious about all this secrecy.”

Anne stuck her nose in the air, lips pressed together.

“You’ll have to wait with everyone else.”

Gilbert tried to pout which, when he was younger and less scrupulous, gained him all kinds of favors with the women of Avonlea, especially sweets.

But Anne was determined, it seemed, and she turned away, slapping his arm lightly.

“Stop that! I won’t tell a thing.”

Gilbert pouted a second longer just to hear her giggle again as she turned back to look at him, but eventually admitted his defeat graciously.

“It’s only two days away, after all.”

“Exactly. Now can we please talk about something else?”

Picking up the book he had failed to start the night before, Gilbert offered Grammar, which Anne accepted with a shrug. He had a feeling she would have accepted any diversion whatsoever, which only fanned the flames of his curiosity.

But for now he was satisfied to know that nothing had changed between them since the day before – at least that nothing had broken. As he thought those words, he felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. Even the heat that seeped in from the windows seemed more bearable to him now. With a small shake of his head that evaded Anne like most of his inner turmoil, Gilbert willed himself to focus on modifier rules.

He wasn’t so chirpy the day of the bonfire. He had slept with the window to his room wide opened so that the sun would wake him as it rose, but that also meant he had spend the night sweating and fending off mosquitoes.

 _Oh, how he missed winter!_ he thought groggily as he padded his way to kitchen. Briefly eyeing the bag of Jamaican coffee, now resting on a high shelf in the kitchen as a trophy, he shook his head and doubled the dose of his regular brew.

“Hey,” he mused aloud as he took a sip, “this isn’t bad.”

Gilbert was surprised to find the coffee, not bitter to the point of punishment as he expected, but rather sweeter than he was used to, and richer too. He turned the cup in his hands, thinking the problem over and formulating a theory. Maybe the water extracted less from the grounds if there were more of them, only keeping the sweetness of the roast without taking in the bitterness?  He sipped some more. _Hum, yeah, definitely better_ , he thought to himself. Tucking the idea in a corner of his brain, he made a note to raise the question the next time Anne was over, just to see if she had a different theory.

As soon as he was done with breakfast, he made his way to the end of the Avenue, on the large flat clearing where the bonfires always took place, and found it already bustling with people. Moody raised his hammer in greeting when he saw him approaching, almost taking Charlie’s eye out as he did. Gilbert waved at them but didn’t dare interrupt the work.  

Mr. Barry, as the de facto organiser of every Avonlea event, including, but not limited to, church picnics, bonfires, Christmas caroling, and the Easter egg hunt, was in the middle of the clearing on a small stepladder, barking orders this way and that. Gilbert hadn’t even made it to the ladder before he was assigned a role.

All morning he helped set up tents and tables, his mind not once letting go of its anticipation. Around noon, a group of women came and draped large swathes of fabric around one of the tents, hiding its inside from view. In it were smuggled with little discretion most girls in school, along with cloth bags and bundles of fabric.

Gilbert exchanged a look with Charlie, who shrugged. Moody blushed and looked away guiltily, but Gilbert couldn’t tear his eyes away from the tent. He knew Anne was there. He had seen a flash of red duck under the fabric.

By mid-afternoon, most of the work was done. Gilbert quickly washed his hands and face in the large basin left for that purpose, before shrugging his shirt back on and walking over to the tent where Mrs. Lynde was overseeing refreshments with Marilla Cuthbert.

“Oh, hello Gilbert, would you like some tea?”

 “Yes, please. Thank you, Mrs. Cuthbert.”

“Haven’t you grown into quite the polite young man!” exclaimed Rachel Lynde besides her. “Your father would be very proud, Gilbert.”

The cup of tea wobbled on its saucer and Gilbert felt color drain from his face. He tried, without much success, to smile, knowing that the comment was well-intentioned. After fumbling with words for a second, he downed the cup, scalding his tongue, and all but ran out of the tent. Behind himself, he heard Marilla’s sarcastic “Nicely done.” but no more.

Bypassing the boys who were waiting for him outside, Gilbert made a beeline for the woods, feeling the hot liquid slosh uncomfortably in his belly. He pressed a fist to his mouth as he went, but by the time he reached safe cover, the worst of his panic was over, and his stomach settled. He sighed deeply, tears prickling the corner of his eyes.

 _How long will it be until that kind of comments stopped hurting?_ he wondered.

After a little while, and with what was becoming a force of habit, he swallowed back his feelings and returned to the clearing. The episode, as he was starting to call them, didn’t last long, but the time he was gone had been sufficient to clear the place of all tools and constructions, and the setting was magnificent.

The tents were decked in all colors of the rainbow, a profusion of flowers dangling from the corners of each. In the center of the clearing, in lieu of Mr. Barry, now stood a maypole, and a little further away from the tents, a pile of wood that would make a spectacular bonfire come sunset.  

A hush fell over the assembly, as an angelic voice rose from the hidden tent. Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Barry folded back the curtains to reveal Diana, holding a candle, a flower crown adorning her head.  All of the girls following her in procession wore one too. Anne, at the end of the line, stared at the back of Diana’s head with complete adoration. Gilbert smiled. It seemed the secret had been worth keeping on all parts.

They walked solemnly yet demurely to the maypole, each girl taking one of the long ribbons that hung from the pole. As they started to dance around it, Diana stood to the side, but the girls, to Anne’s behest, sang along whenever the same words came up, lending depth and width to her crystalline voice.

There wasn’t a single person in the clearing that didn’t stand rigidly silent, transfixed, as they turned around the pole, tying the ribbons around it in colorful stripes. As the dance finished and under thunderous clapping, the girls surrounded Diana who, after getting an enthusiastic nod from her father and a warier one from her mother, walked to the bonfire and stuck her candle in the tinder. Soon the kindling was taking to the flames, and the adults ran to draw the girls back and away from the fire.  

Clinging to Matthew’s arm, Anne turned to Gilbert at last, and shot him a brilliant smile. Had she been aware of his presence the whole time? He responded to the smile a second too late, his heart hammering in his chest.

They were both stolen away by friends, but at times their glances met in the middle of the crowd and with each one Gilbert’s breath escaped him. He had felt something for this girl from the very first second he had met her, and his feelings had only grown since then, he was honest enough with himself to admit that. But today, they overwhelmed him. He felt them rising inside of him like a tidal wave, bigger and more powerful for each withdrawal, until they threatened to overflow and drown him.

He wandered to the edge of the clearing and Anne met him there, drawn together like a lodestone and a nail.

“Did you like it?” she asked, twirling in her dress.

It was a testament to how far gone Gilbert’s mind was that it took him a couple of seconds to understand the question.

“It was great,” he finally said. “You were fantastic. And Diana can really sing, uh,” he added after a pause.

Anne nodded excitedly at this.

“I was so ecstatic when I first hear her sing that I completely forgot to walk!” she admitted with a laugh.

“No one noticed,” he assured her. “I think we were all too stunned for that.”

“See, I told you it had to remain a secret! Mrs. Barry made us rehearse in the theater, with all the doors closed and curtains drawn to keep it a secret, so you had better appreciate our sacrifice.”

Gilbert wondered how Moody had stumbled upon them. That seemed like an interesting story, if for another time.

“We did appreciate it. I assume the flower crowns were your idea?” he asked.

“Obviously.”

They shared a small smile that felt like a secret of its own.

He coughed nervously as he looked away. “You must be tired of dancing by now,” he observed off-handedly.

Anne looked at him with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

“How could I ever be?” she asked in a disbelieving tone. “Honestly. What a stupid question,” she muttered, already dragging him by the sleeve to the middle of the clearing where an impromptu dance circle had started around Thomas Lynde and his fiddle.

Gilbert noted to himself that she sounded very much like her adopted mother when she mumbled like this. He didn’t note much after that, because Anne took his hands and placed them on herself, already moving with the music, and he couldn’t help but follow along.


	11. Four bare feet on the rain soaked streets

Gilbert was grateful for the wind that was picking up.

They had been dancing and turning and laughing for what seemed like hours now, and he could feel his undershirt stick to his back as he walked away from the group still dancing animatedly in the middle of the clearing. Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he found his curls dripping with sweat. He entered the refreshment tent with a grimace, drying his palm on his sleeve.

He almost choked on his drink when Anne’s voice suddenly spoke behind him.

“Tired already?”

After a discrete cough to clear his airway, Gilbert answered as believably as he could that no, he was just taking a break because of the heat.

Anne eyed him in mock suspicion, but her cheeks were red too, and her forehead glistened with sweat.

“I will admit that it is almost unbearably hot,” she offered with a nod, fanning herself with her hand, “but who could care about temperature when there is _dancing_ to be done!” She downed half a cup of water in one go as she said this, and was already half-running outside before she was finished.

As he followed her at a more leisurely pace, Gilbert noticed for the first time how dark it had become.

Dozens of small candles had been lit around the clearing, but the bonfire itself was sufficient to see most of the scene. Under the light of the flames, bodies swayed with the music, and laughter echoed from all around as groups gathered around tent corners and small tables, eating, drinking, and chatting merrily. But above them, it wasn’t night that had fallen.

Looking up, Gilbert could see dark clouds covering the horizon from all sides. They ate all colors from the sky, turning the sunset a dull, dark grey. The tree tops swayed like dancers, black as ink over the clouds, with only the golden flakes of the firelight to shine on them.

As it swept by him, the wind carried a thick smell of ozone, hot dusty air mixed with the colder drafts coming from the woods around them.

Anne turned to him impatiently and the warnings died on the tip of his tongue. They joined the circle of their friends again, who immediately spread to make room for them. Instruments had been procured from all around town, and people sang along to familiar songs, stomping and clapping in joyous rhythm.

They were in the middle of a complicated move that started with Gilbert extending his arms toward Diana who slapped her hands flat against his before turning back toward Jerry and repeating the motion – with, he noted, a wider and truer smile – when Gilbert felt the air pressure drop suddenly. He turned toward Anne even though it wasn’t her turn. She must have felt the change as well, or she understood something from his glance, because she stopped moving and looked up. In her eyes, he saw reflected a brief flash of light.

The sky was now black as the pit, and a low rumble shook the very ground of the clearing. One by one, the dancers stopped, and the conversations hushed. Time was suspended for a moment of anxious anticipation, before lightning dashed again clear across the sky, thunder quick on its tail. Gilbert felt the first drop of rain splash on his cheek. He blinked reflexively, but before he could open his eyes again, chaos had erupted in the clearing.

In seconds, rain was falling, and women shrieked as they ran for cover, hands covering their hair. Men ran after them, and soon the tents were overcrowded. A large bit of fabric hung over the entrance to the main tent that had flown outside and was now soaked and muddy was flung inside by a gust of wind and slapped Josie Pye across the face. Besides him, Anne and Diana who, until now, had been too stunned by the sudden change in weather to move, burst out laughing and ran toward the woods, seeking shelter under the canopy.

Jerry offered Diana his scarf to protect her hair, which she accepted with a blush. Gilbert had nothing of the sort to offer Anne, but she didn’t seem to care, having already gone to explore the forest. They had been touching in one form or another all evening, hands brushing together, holding hips, or bumping shoulders ; her absence at his side was made all the more obvious for how accustomed he had become to these simple caresses, so he left their friends under a large oak tree and went in search of her.

He saw her shadow disappear behind thick bushes and struggled to keep up.

“Anne, wait!” he called out.

She stopped suddenly, and he bumped into her, the absence of light distorting his perception of distance. Grabbing her to keep them both from falling, he felt compelled to ask: “What are you _doing_?”

This was a question Anne must hear often, he knew, but her current behavior confounded even him, who was used to her strangeness.

“The clearing is right by Mr. Barry’s property,” she explained. “When Diana and I first met, we promised each other unwavering devotion and love on a path close to here, and from there is a shortcut to their home. If only I could remember where it starts from…”

She had gone again like a dog on a scent, bent forward both to see better and to fall from less high whenever she stumbled on a hidden root or stepped in a hole they couldn’t see. Gilbert reached for her every time, but she righted her way and continued without his help. He found himself following her without question once again.

She perked up as they heard the rustle of water nearby. From under the tree tops, the rain was nothing but a distant murmur, but when they reached Barry’s pond they realized it now fell in heavy sheets. The surface of the pond rippled, the drops turning its quiet waters murky and bubbling.

Unbothered by the rain, Anne turned from the pond and inspected the shore. Finally, it seemed she found what she had been looking for: she pointed to a dark path winding through the trees, with a cry of “Here!” and a wide smile.

“Are you sure it’s the right one?” asked Gilbert, hesitant to dampen her enthusiasm.

“Absolutely certain. Come on!” she called, already turning tail to fetch Diana and Jerry.

In her haste, she jumped over the little wooden jetty that expanded into Barry’s Pond. Even in the low light its surface was green with moss and glistening with moisture, but before Gilbert could warn her, Anne had stepped on it. As soon as her foot connected with the wood, she slipped, a soundless cry rounding her lips in surprise.

Gilbert gasped as he watched her skid on the wet wood in horror, powerless to stop it. Her hands fought for purchase, tearing strips in the moss, but the momentum carried her over the jetty and she sank into the dark pond with a small and insignificant _plop!_

For a terrifying second, the rain fell and the lake shimmered, everything silent but for the hushed voices of the forest. It was like Anne had never been here. It was every nightmare Gilbert had ever had, something ancient and primal awakening in him at the sight.  

“Anne!” he yelled, jumping on the wood himself. He held onto a nearby branch, his heart racing, a cry in his head, and laid on the jetty, eyes searching the depths.

Before long Anne had resurfaced, and he hastily grabbed onto her arms, dragging her from the water.

She was soaked to the bone and breathless, and she clung to him as he led her back to the shore. Panting, they knelt close together, touching each other in reassurance. Adrenaline made Gilbert's hands shake. He couldn't keep them off Anne, not even when they rose, feeling the need to ascertain her presence. She was strangely quiet, accepting the weight of his arm around her shoulders without protest.

They walked slowly and silently through the forest. When they finally reached the edge of the woods, Diana and Jerry were gone, the clearing deserted, the bonfire put out.

“Her parents must have come to get them,” mumbled Anne from his side. “Good,” she added with a shiver.

Gilbert turned toward her and studied her face, pale and wet. She was trembling. Her hair, turned dark by the water, clung to her forehead. Her lips were red and bore the imprint of her teeth, and a large green streak marked one cheek. He brushed it away with trembling fingers.

“We should get you dry,” he said in a low voice. Anne nodded miserably, a ghost of her usual self.

Thinking aloud, he added: “Green Gables is pretty far. Do you wanna try the Barrys’ or do you…?” he asked without words, nodding in the direction of his house. It was the logical choice, he told himself. His house was nearby, and the Barrys had enough to do with, no doubt, all the impromptu guests that must have taken refuge in their home.

Anne looked at him, pupils blown wide by the obscurity. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it just as soon, shaking her head a little and curling up against his side, her head a dead weight on his shoulder.

He slid his arm around her waist and prompted them forward.

“Come on,” he urged.

They hid under the tree line for most of the way, unknowingly retracing the steps he had taken that day he came home. He kept them away from the biggest trees, careful of the branches that cracked and swayed in the gale. Thunder still resounded above, but the leaves absorbed most of the lightning. He held her a little closer anytime the ground shook, even though she had never expressed any fear of the thunder - maybe he was the one in need of comfort. In the dark, drenched forest, his house had never felt farther. Gilbert prayed for help. 

At last the house appeared behind the trees, its windows dark, the orchard full of fantastical shapes. He accelerated their walk, urging Anne to follow along, but as they reached the edge of the woods she stopped, hand curling on his shirt to keep him from walking.

“Don’t cross a field in a storm,” she said. Her voice was small, but her eyes admitted no objection.

Nodding, Gilbert led them through the bushes and then through the orchard. The rain lifted the rotten smell of ruined apples from the ground, along with the thick scent of wet earth.

He was glad to find the door unlocked as he had left it, quickly pushing it open and leading her inside. They toed off their muddy boots and she sat on the couch while he went in search of towels and blankets.

Draping one of the former over her back, he sat beside her. He was almost as soaked as she was from having walked in the rain, but her state worried him. He had never seen her so… so unlike herself.

Anne made no move to dry herself, no move at all. She sat hunched forward, shivering, the towel weighting her shoulders. Carefully, he drew her backward, wrapping the towel around her small form. She reclined against the couch without a word, which did nothing to allay his fears.

The temperature outside had dropped significantly with the storm breaking. Getting to his feet, Gilbert piled blankets on her, and busied himself with the fireplace. It was dusty and full of soot since he didn’t plan to use it during summer, but soon, kindling crackled and warmth was restored to the room.

He sat beside Anne again, and at last she turned to him, a small smile on her lips. He did his best to respond to the smile but couldn’t help the worry that twisted his face. Anne seemed to understand. She waited for him to sit back fully against the couch before curling against his side, her legs drawn up, nestled in the blankets. Gilbert embraced her with a deep, heavy sigh.

Her wet hair touched his cheek, and Gilbert recoiled on instinct. Reaching behind him, he grabbed another towel from the pile he had brought, patting her hair softly with it. In seconds, the towel was soaked. The braids, what was left of them at least, had retained a lot of moisture. He dug one out of the blanket under Anne’s watchful eyes, untying the ribbon. But before the hair could unravel, he tugged on it gently, their eyes meeting.

“Hey carrots,” he whispered.

Anne mock-glared at him before she giggled, and he felt some of the worry leave him. She helped him undo the second braid while he dried the first, combing his fingers through her silky hair. No matter how long he had wished to do just that, Gilbert could never have guessed this would be the way his fantasy would come to life.

With the towel covering her hair and the pile of blankets on her lap she looked like a medieval princess escaped from a dungeon. He told her so and in the warm light of the fire, her eyes sparkled. She was so close, he could count every eyelash, every freckle. Her shivering had stopped, and her small hands rested demurely on the covers. She averted her eyes to look at them for a moment. When she looked back at him, the fire was in her gaze and Gilbert wavered.

“Anne,” he breathed out, a second before her lips fell on his.

He cupped her cheek when she withdrew, running his thumb over the dimples of her smile. Her eyes fluttered closed again, and they sighed in unison, laughing lightly.

He drew her to him once more and sank back into the couch, Anne curled up in his arms, his lips against her hair. The emotions of the day had exhausted them; and before they could register the monumental weight of the moment, they fell asleep, safe and content in the presence of the other.

Outside, the storm raged. 

 


	12. Sixty seconds worth of distance run

For a moment, all Gilbert was conscious of was warmth, sleep, and a comfortable weight over his chest. His ears picked up on the silence outside before he could understand what it meant, before the silence was broken again by the noise that had woken him up in the first place.

“Anne! Anne, where are you?!”

Anxious voices called, and the distinctive sound of a wooden cart full of people coming to a stop was heard.

“Anne are you there?” called the voice again, loud knocks on the door echoing in the room.

Besides him, Anne hadn’t stirred. Gilbert shook her gently, and at last she opened her eyes, blinking at his proximity.

“Gil?” she asked in a soft, sleep-heavy voice.

“Your family’s come for you,” he told her, removing the last layers of blankets covering them. With the fire still burning, most of them had fallen off already, and Gilbert could feel sweat cooling on his neck.

Anne looked around, confused, before she seemed to remember where she was and jumped to her feet, dragging one of the blankets behind her in her hurry to answer the door.

“I’m here Marilla, I’m fine!” she called in response, the words flowing together with evident habit.

Gilbert couldn’t blame Marilla for her worry when Anne got into such shenanigans all the time. Neither could he help the pang in his chest when she opened the door and the old woman’s face suddenly relaxed, grabbing her daughter and holding her close for a second, before she remembered herself and started yelling again.

“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, have you been here all this time? We looked for you all over town! I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere!”

Anne hung her head sheepishly. Matthew came up behind his sister, looking relieved, and patted the girl’s hair. He nodded to himself silently, as if reassuring himself that their daughter was fine.

“Is the girl alright?” asked Mr. Barry’s voice from his seat on the cart.

He had apparently been going around his property, picking up stranded guests who had taken refuge from the rain in precarious locations, if the foot of mud on the women’s skirts were any indication. Father Bentley sat at the back of the cart, the hair he usually combed over his bald spot hanging limp on both sides of his head as he complained loudly about the hour.

“I’m fine, sorry Mr. Barry! Sorry everyone,” said Anne again.  

Marilla had overcome her worry, it seemed, because she was now whispering admonitions at her daughter, her lips pursed in a tight line.

“Honestly, what were you thinking, leaving without a word. And spending the night with a boy you are not related to, what will people say-”

“It’s not her fault, Mrs. Cuthbert,” intervened Gilbert. “Anne fell into the pond, she just came here to dry herself.”

The look Anne gave him then as he turned, wide eyed and frowning, made it quite obvious that this hadn’t been his best move.

“What?!” cried Marilla. Her mouth opened wide, but no further sound came out, as if no word could properly express her fury. She raised both hands in exasperated surrender and sighed heavily, before turning back to the cart. “Well, come along now,” she ordered.

Anne made to follow her but hesitated. She realized then that she was still wearing the blanket draped like a cape around her shoulders. She folded it slowly as she walked up to Gilbert, her eyes riveted to his. She didn’t seem angry anymore, just tired and sad to leave. Their fingers touched a second too long when she handed him the blanket and Gilbert felt warmth spread through him again. If it hadn’t been for the town folks in the cart, he would have taken her hand and said proper goodbyes, but he could feel the eyes set on them. Anne was in enough trouble as it was, so he watched her go in silence. Matthew waved discreetly as the cart turned around and gave a small nod of his head in thanks to the boy who had helped his stranded child.

The house felt empty and silent once she had left. Gilbert didn’t bother lighting any lamp. Instead, he threw a pail of water on the dying embers, left their warm nest on the sofa as it was, and went to sleep alone in the cold sheets of his bed.

The next morning, he saw the clear blue sky reflected in the mud puddles before he even opened the window. The grounds were saturated with water, the trees still dripping wet. By this afternoon, the grass would turn green again and the leaves would perk up. Gilbert struggled not to see a metaphor in this but found himself hoping anyway.

Having cleaned his breakfast dishes, he set out in search of a distraction. The air was clean in the way it only ever is after a storm. He could taste the salt of the ocean breeze on his tongue as he crossed the yard, making mental notes of things that needed fixing. The weather was marginally cooler too, and in the shade of the barn, he shivered, wishing he had shrugged on at least a shirt.

He picked up tools and materials, first a hammer and nails he held in his left fist, then a ball of yarn tucked in his elbow, then a crowbar under his arm; the pincers were what finally made him reconsider his balancing act, but before he could set them down, his foot caught in a large metal pole he had meant to set upright again, and he stumbled forward, tools falling to the ground with a loud crash. Besides him, an angry screech made him jump again before he could right his position and he fell too, the flat side of the hammer hitting him in the ribs.

Gilbert sat stunned on the ground for a moment, too surprised to move, as a very dirty cat clawed its way out of boxes that held the old horse things, spitting and hissing at him. Under the mud – and was that blood? – the cat was a bright orange, and Gilbert took a liking to it instantly. He raised his hands in a show of non-violence and forced himself to remain still and silent as the cat came up to him. He was thoroughly sniffed and inspected before it was decided that he wasn’t a threat. The cat rubbed itself against his side before climbing in the boxes again.

Gilbert followed it curiously, half-expecting to find some dead mice in the old blankets, but he was greeted with a sight he wasn’t likely to forget soon: nestled in the scratchy wool, five little faces looked up at their mother’s return with eyes still blind, tiny noses shaking with the exertion. The cat laid back down and the kittens slowly crawled over to her, nosing at her dirty fur.

An inexpressible emotion came over Gilbert. He ran a finger over the cat’s head, feeling this emotion balloon in his chest.

“Hey,” he said softly, smiling widely though the tears that prickled his eyes. The cat held out its head, eyes closed in contentment, and Gilbert rubbed it gently. “You’ve done so well,” he praised her. The cat purred in response, and there was some pride in that noise.

The rest of the morning was thus spent preparing a home for this small family in the house, and it took Gilbert most of the afternoon to convince them to move in with him, but by nightfall, the kittens rested comfortably in a large basket lined with the horse blanket, milk-drowsy and warm, while mama cat purred happily on his lap, savoring some well-deserved rest.

As he stroked her now clean fur, Gilbert thought of the night before. He couldn’t wait to show Anne the kittens. He laughed quietly imagining her excitment. She would probably get clawed by mama cat if she wasn’t careful.

“If she comes by tomorrow,” he told the cat, “I’ll introduce you to Anne. I’m sure you’ll like her. You two seem a lot alike,” he added with a smile.

Mama cat gave him a quizzical look and hopped off his lap and onto the couch. Gilbert had pulled most of the blankets back in his room, but he had kept one for chilly nights, and the cat busied itself digging underneath it. It pulled onto something with a shake of its lower body and emerged from the fabric with a small brown ribbon in his fangs.

“Oh, no, that’s not yours,” warned Gilbert, snatching the ribbon away. Mama cat complained half-heartedly, before dropping down to the basket to check on her kittens. She licked one that had woken up, nosing at its small body until it fell back asleep.

After some investigation, Gilbert found the second ribbon under a cushion. He spread them on his palm and ran his fingers over them slowly, scenes from the night before playing again in his head. He couldn’t repress the smile that spread on his face, nor the sigh that escaped his lips. Falling back against the couch, he looked up, thanking the stars and whoever was up there for his luck. He fell asleep, that night, with the ribbons tied around his wrist and a hand over his heart.

He awoke late again the next day and wasted half of it looking out of the window, waiting for a silhouette that refused to appear. By late afternoon, it became clear that Anne wouldn’t come, so Gilbert decided to go shopping for his new roommates. The butcher was only too happy to give him scraps of meat for mama cat, going so far as to call his wife for advice on the proper care of kittens. Gilbert thanked them warmly and ran home to his new charges.

The house was as he had left it, and Anne never came by this late, but Gilbert couldn’t shake the worry from his mind. He hoped she hadn’t been scolded too hard. Marilla usually seemed to like him well enough, but she had to look out for her daughter’s best interests, and there was nothing Avonlea liked more than fresh gossip. He sent a small prayer on her behalf that night as he blew out the candle on his nightstand.  

By noon the next day, Gilbert couldn’t stand still. He left with a quick kiss to mama cat’s forehead and ran through the woods to Green Gables. At the edge of the property, however, he hesitated. What if his visit made things worse for her?

No matter how much he thought about it – and god knows he had thought of little else since then – Gilbert couldn’t see anything wrong with their actions. Nothing in his life had ever felt as pure as the love she had ignited in his heart. How could something so wonderful, so extraordinary, be made into an object of shame? Besides, no one knew what had happened that night. She couldn’t be held responsible for – for what? Seeking shelter from the rain? No one knew she had kissed him, he told himself firmly.

Merely a second later, that sentence echoed back in his head and he felt his cheeks color. _Anne had kissed him._ Before his thoughts could spiral out any further, a cheerful voice called his name from the fields.

“Gilbert! Comment ça va?”

Gilbert turned to the boy with a small grin and shook his hand.

“Hello Jerry.”

“If you’re looking for the girls, they’re gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?” asked Gilbert, the embers of worry reigniting in his stomach. In a mere second, all of the worst scenarios that had crossed his mind floated to the surface of his consciousness again. He steeled himself. No matter where they had taken Anne, he would find her. No tower could hide her from him, no dragon.

“They’re in Charlottetown for the weekend. Ma’am Barry’s coach came by to pick them up yesterday.” Gilbert’s face must have been quite the picture, because Jerry’s frowned deepened. “Didn’t she tell you about it?”

Gilbert remembered Anne talking about Diana’s aunt from Charlottetown, whom Anne seemed to adore. She had indeed mentioned going to see her before the end of the month, but she hadn’t said anything at the bonfire or after. Maybe she had been too distracted and had forgotten. He felt his cheeks color again.

Jerry shook his head good-naturedly. “Man, you’re really gone on her,” he sighed. “Can’t imagine why, but hey...” he concluded with a shrug. Gilbert didn’t have the heart to contradict him.

“Anyway,” he added with a wink, picking up his shovel, “better run before Mrs. Marilla comes back and finds you here. She’ll think you’re trying to steal her again.”

“She fell in the pond!” defended Gilbert again.

“Whatever you say,” shrugged Jerry again, turning back to his field.

Gilbert watched him go with a smile. There were enough similarities between him and Anne that the two could have been related, and from the way Anne talked about him sometimes, they behaved like siblings too. That frank, unedited honesty was one of those similarities. He liked their carelessness too, he tried to remind himself, even though he would have liked a word before she went.

 _Good god_ , he thought on the way home, _two days and I already miss her_.

Monday morning rolled in cloudy and gray, but Gilbert was awake at dawn nonetheless. He sat shamelessly on the porch the whole afternoon, ready to run at the first sight of red, but all he saw was mama cat, joining him out of pity around tea time. She laid over his legs, enjoying the sun rays. He closed his eyes and did the same.

Tuesday, he forced himself to sleep in, or at least to stay in bed until a decent hour. He was out of milk but didn’t dare leave his house for fear of missing Anne’s arrival. All of the tasks that awaited his attention in the shed or at the back of the house were put on hold for that same reason. The book he took with him to the front porch laid on his lap where mama cat had lain, looked at but unread. Instead, Gilbert looked at the horizon obscured by the trees, wishing and worrying.

What if Anne resented him now? Could that be why she didn’t think to say goodbye? Surely, even Mrs. Cuthbert’s formidable temper couldn’t hold off against her daughter’s stubborness for that long.

Gilbert drew up his knees and held them to his chest, hands joined over them like a prayer. He looked at Anne’s ribbons, still tied to his wrist, and ran a careful finger over the delicate fabric. _Oh, the torture of love, you’ll know that soon enough_ , he remembered his father saying. How he would laugh at him now.

Gilbert wanted to laugh at himself too, but he couldn’t – not with the worry twisting his gut. It kept him up all night, a thick knot obstructing his throat and making his breath short. Before dawn, he came back to the couch and stroked mama cat to ease his mind. She nipped at his fingers playfully and he almost cried from that small act of kindness, almost wished he could, if only to relieve himself of his stress. For someone who had always prided himself on his independance, it sure seemed like he couldn’t deal with any extended loneliness.

He ate breakfast while watching the sun rise through the window. He desperately wanted to see a sign in this, a token of hope, but eventually, the rainbow colors of sunrise blended into one unending and uniform shade of solid blue, and the sun shone, hot and dry, on the browning grass. It didn’t feel like quite the right sign.

Restlessness plagued him all morning. He fretted so much that mama cat hissed at him again, chasing him out of his own living room. He hovered for a moment in the entryway, before deciding that he couldn’t take this anxiety anymore. Pulling on his boots, he slammed the door and ran to Green Gables.

The road was dusty, and he soon regretted not cutting through the woods like he had done the other day. Behind him, he heard a cart coming fast and barely jumped aside to avoid it. He couldn’t see the driver through the cloud but trying to yell after them only made him inhale dust. He coughed almost all the way to Green Gables.

He found the gate opened wide, and the cart that had almost ran him over parked in the middle of the way. The door to the house was opened too, and Gilbert couldn’t stop the fear from choking him.

The voices didn’t help either.

“She’ll be fine, Marilla, she just... has to rest.”

“But she should be here! At home!”

“She’s not... well enough to - to travel for now. But well, they’ve got a good doctor coming-”

Gilbert knocked on the door, but the sound went unnoticed by the two Cuthberts in the kitchen. Marilla sat at the table, her hair in disarray. He had never seen the woman so distraught. Matthew’s back was to him, but the hand holding his hat was white-knuckled and tense.

“What happened?” finally asked Gilbert, voice cracking.

The Cuthberts turned toward him as one.

“Oh, Gilbert, it’s you.”

Matthew nodded in greetings, before turning back to his sister.

“You... She’ll be fine. She’s strong, you know,” he added, nodding his head repeatedly.

“What I know is that I shouldn’t have let her go!” moaned Marilla. “She wasn’t well when she left, she should have stayed here.”

Taking a seat besides her, Gilbert asked again: “What happened? Is Anne hurt?”

Marilla dried her eyes with a corner of her apron, making an evident effort to regain control of herself. “She has a fever,” she finally said.

With those four words, Gilbert felt his world crumble around him. The only thought that crossed the tangled mess of his emotions in that moment was a simple and heartfelt cry:

 _Not again_.  


	13. Who can stop me if I decide that you're my destiny?

Hours later, Gilbert’s lungs still burned. As he sat on the Charlottetown train, staring mindlessly out of the window, he felt as if he had swallowed the red coals that powered the machine themselves.

The Cuthberts had tried to reason him out of going to Anne. Matthew was exhausted from the journey, and despite Marilla’s anxious fidgeting, she didn’t plan on rushing to her side either.  

“She’s under better care at Mrs. Barry’s than we could ever afford to give her,” she had said, with a special kind of resignation in her voice he had often heard Mrs. Kincannon use when talking about his dad.

That the poor had to settle for lesser healthcare infuriated Gilbert. When he tried to talk of this, he was always told that he was too young to worry about such things, but he hadn’t been too young to learn fairness from injustice, and this sounded like the worst of these to him. People died when it could have been avoided – how could something like this be so widely accepted puzzled him to no end.

As much as he had always hated hypocrites and tried to the best of his ability to avoid being one, Gilbert mused as the sights flew, unseen, outside the window, on this occasion he was one, and glad for it too. That Anne was under good care was all that mattered to him – that and seeing her as soon as he could.

When the Cuthberts had announced that no, they wouldn’t go back to town with him _right this instant_ , he had fled the house with the green gables, and ran across forests and fields, first back to his house to grab his bag, then to the train station. It was early enough in the day that he had been able to catch the train. It had been on the verge of leaving the station, but he had jumped on the platform, digging in his pocket, and throwing coins to the stationmaster with an apology. The chugging and clatter of the machine had deafened him to the answer, but he had had other things on his mind anyway. He had found a seat and thanked his luck. Had he been more of a believer, he would have thanked the higher powers for this small miracle and prayed for more to come. He sure would need them.

He bounced his leg against the floor and tapped his fingers on the window sill until he noticed the glare of the other passengers. Forcing himself to stillness, he took to looking outside, but the images escaped his eyes. His mind was entirely occupied with Anne. How was she? _Where_ was she? Marilla had said that Mrs. Barry lived on main street, in “a veritable castle of magnificence” according to her daughter’s tales and Jerry’s wide-eyed report, but that didn’t help much. He remembered the main street as being lined with mansions. He would have to ask. A grocer was probably his best bet, as they knew where their clients worked, and a castle like this had to have an important domesticity.

Ironing out meaningless details like this kept his mind occupied most of the way. However, at the precise second his feet touched the ground of Charlottetown station, he remembered his new charges and cursed aloud.

“Watch your tongue young man!” scolded a passerby.

He bowed his head sheepishly and apologized. In his fear and hurry, he had all but forgotten about the kittens. Would they be fine without him? He supposed they would, their mother would care for them. But would she be okay too? What if something happened to her, what would become of the kittens then?

Shaking his head, he tried, without much success, to get the idea out of it.  He already had one redhead to worry about.

As he walked up Main street, he looked for a grocer to ask but really, only one house stood out as a possible “castle of magnificence”, a splendid Victorian house with an imposing front porch. Gilbert climbed the stairs with unusual shyness.

He rang the bell, and, after some minutes, a stately butler opened the heavy doors.

“Yes?”

“Is this Mrs. Barry’s hou-”

“Rollings, is that Doctor Burton?” cut in a sharp voice.

From behind the butler appeared a small, slightly scary woman, who eyed every crease and every stain on Gilbert’s clothes before squinting at his face.

“Who are you?” she asked. Her tone demanded a quick answer.

“Gilbert Blythe, Ma’am. I’m friends with Anne?”

The name seemed to have an almost magical effect on the old woman, whose face suddenly melted into a soft expression of care.

“Oh,” she breathed out, a small smile twisting her lips up for a second. “Get in then,” she ordered.

Something in her brusque manners reminded Gilbert of Marilla. Anne seemed to have a knack for winning the love of these strong women, he thought. He tried not to glance too obviously at the gigantic staircase, at the glittering chandeliers or at the silver mirrors adorning the walls, for fear of seeming impolite, but the house had truly deserved its description.

“Are you from Avonlea?”

 “Um, yes.”

“You’re a long way from home. Did you come on your own?” she questioned again as he was introduced into the foyer.

“Yes, ma’am. I was…” he paused. No sense hiding it, he supposed. “I was worried about Anne. Her adoptive father told me she has a fever, is that right?” he asked in return.

The woman nodded gravely, before turning to her butler.

“Rollings, where is doctor Burton?” she yelled suddenly.

The man seemed used to her manners, as he barely blinked, before answering in as calm a tone as before : “His assistant said he would be on his way as soon as the surgery was done.”

“That was an hour ago!”

Under her apparent anger, worry was palpable.

“The assistant said the doctor was suturing the patient when he last saw him, so it shouldn’t be too long now.”

“Leave out the details, I’ll thank you. Well, no sense standing around here. I suppose you want to see her, if you’ve come all the way?” she asked, turning back toward Gilbert.

“Um… yes, please.”

She nodded toward the staircase. “Second door on the right, Diana should be there with her.”

Gilbert hesitated for a second, toying with the strap on his bag.

“Thank you,” he said with a small bow and climbed a few steps before turning back hesitantly. It felt weird to explore this huge house alone, but the woman and the butler were already halfway out of the room. When she saw him still standing on the stairs, Mrs. Barry yelled at him, “Go, boy!” and he scrambled up the remaining steps.

If possible, the second floor was even more luxurious than the first. Several doors of delicately carved oak, with polished brass handles, faced him – which one was it again? Before he could remember, one of them opened, and Diana Barry’s head appeared in the opening.

“Aunt Jo, is that the doctor- oh hi Gilbert,” she greeted, a smile gracing her features. The smile didn’t last, however, and Gilbert noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the way she blinked a little too often. “Come in, Anne will be so happy to see you,” she said, opening the door wide.

Gilbert braced himself before entering the room. Behind Diana he could see the foot of a bed, and, under the sheets, a small, unmistakable form. He stepped into the room, and suddenly, all the glitz and glamour disappeared. Anne was dwarfed by the immense bed, and against the deep red of the silk sheets, her skin looked paper white and ashen. In that second he forgot everything else, including Diana’s presence, and rushed to Anne’s side, falling to his knees beside the bed.

Her small hand was cold and clammy as he clasped it in his own. She breathed regularly but was half-asleep and barely registered his fingers grasping hers.

“Oh Anne,” he choked, his throat tight.

“She’s resting, but she was awake earlier,” explained Diana from behind his shoulder. Her own voice was thin and wavering. “She wanted to play being Princess Corde- Cordelia,” she said, a sob cutting her words.

Gilbert turned to comfort her somehow, but at that moment the hand in his moved, and, without opening her eyes, Anne spoke in her usual distinct manner : “I _am_ Princess Cordelia, this is not a game.”

 “Anne you’re awake!” gasped Diana. “Look, Gilb-“

“Cordelia,” cut in Anne.

“Oh right. Er… Princess, you have a visitor,” corrected Diana.

“Who comes to me?” answered Anne, who still hadn’t opened her eyes. For a second, Gilbert believed he knew how Sleeping Beauty’s prince had felt.

“Prince… hum…” started Diana, before turning to Gilbert questioningly. They both shrugged at each other for a second.

“Prince Magnolia,” decided Diana.

“It’s me,” added Gilbert, squeezing Anne’s hand.

Anne opened heavy-lidded eyes, blinking a few times before her eyes met his. A wide smile stretched her lips slowly, and she closed her eyes again with a dreamy look on her face.

“Oh Prince, what a delight it is to see you,” she whispered.

Gilbert’s heart beat furiously. He knew that he was blushing, and that there was no way Diana didn’t know about his feelings for Anne by now, but still, her presence in the room made him feel embarrassed. Diana, with her usual discernment, seemed to understand this because she made a show of going to the door to ask for her aunt again.

During this brief interval, Gilbert raised a shy hand and stroked Anne’s cheek softly. Her skin was cold there too, and he rose to his feet and tucked her under the covers as best as he could without letting go of her hand. 

On the spur of the moment, he bent forward and kissed her forehead gently, a mere brush of his lips against her freckles, but it was then that the door opened again. Diana entered, follow by a veritable procession: behind her were not only her aunt and the butler, but, judging from his medicine bag, the doctor, and what he could only assume was the aforementioned assistant.

He straightened up suddenly but no one paid any attention to his suspicious demeanor or to the redness of his cheeks. Retreating to a corner of the room with Diana, they watched in silence as the men examined Anne, tugging on her arms, pressing on her neck, opening her eyelids. He had to turn aside at that moment, so awful was the vision – she looked like a … he couldn’t even think the word. She looked lifeless.

Beside him, Diana was crying again, tears flowing from her eyes as she watched. Mrs. Barry stood with the butler next to the bed, overseeing the examination with tight lips. The room was eerily silent but for the muttered comments of the doctor.

At last he stopped. The assistant quickly tucked Anne under the covers again.

“She’ll be fine,” announced the doctor. “Most of the illness has passed already.”

 _She’s fine,_ screamed the voice in Gilbert’s head. _She’s safe_. A collective sigh took over the room. Diana pressed Gilbert’s arm with a watery smile. Mrs. Barry sniffed with great dignity, leaning a little less on her cane than she previously had.

“I suggest you keep her warm and at rest for a few more days. When she feels up to it, try to feed her iron-rich foods, like legumes and red meat. The fever was in all likeliness a reaction to a contaminated agent, but she was weakened further by anemia from the blood loss you mentioned.”

Gilbert startled. “Wait, what blood loss?”

Another hush fell over the room, but of a different nature. Gilbert felt as if he had put his foot in his mouth without even realizing he was doing it. “What?” he asked again.

“Er…” said the doctor.

“You’re a bit…young, that is…” added his assistant.

“Gilbert, it’s not-“ tried to explain Diana.

Mrs. Barry cut through the room.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. All women lose blood once a month, boy. It’s part of how our bodies can produce babies. Anne just lost hers for the month, it’s nothing unusual, nothing to worry about.”

All Gilbert found to say to this was “Oh.” A lot of things in his life suddenly made sense, like the girls’ routine absences from class that seemed to be completely excused by their otherwise strict teacher. He could guess why such a thing was kept secret, especially from boys like him, but he wished he had been told sooner. Now wasn’t the time to ask the million questions that popped through his mind, but he didn’t know when the opportunity to learn more about this delicate subject would present itself again.

Diana’s cheeks had turned cherry red and even the doctor was spluttering a little at Mrs. Barry’s boldness, but the woman stood straight, her face merely a little pink in the ears. She stuck her nose high in the air and said in a final tone:

“Anything else you want to learn about it, you go study and become a doctor yourself.”

Gilbert let out another surprised “Oh” at the suggestion. Mrs. Barry then exited the room with the men in tow to settle the doctor’s fees downstairs, looking every bit like an old queen with her courtiers.

Diana yawned as soon as their back was turned, forgoing her manners in the face of her relief and exhaustion. She dropped into a chair facing the bed, closing her eyes, and sighing deeply.

“Oh Gilbert, what wonderful news.”

“It is,” he responded automatically, his mind on a dozen things at once. He couldn’t deny the relief he too felt, however. As he approached Anne’s side, he simply saw a dozing girl and not… what he saw before. He prayed he would never see this again. _She’s fine_ , he told himself.

With the tip of his index, he caressed her hand where it rested on top of the covers. Even her fingers were covered in freckles – the thought made something warm grow in his chest.

At his touch, Anne’s eyes blinked open again. Her eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

“Gilbert?” she muttered. “What are you doing here?”

He came closer to the bed. With a quick glance behind himself, he noticed Diana was fast asleep, slumped against the side of the chair. The poor girl must have stayed awake all of yesterday, worrying about Anne. He would find a way to thank her and her wonderful aunt later. For now, all that mattered was Anne.

 _Anne_.

She didn’t remember Prince Magnolia, but it didn’t matter either. His mind was full of her as he sat on the bed carefully. He laced his fingers with hers and she smiled softly. Even in this state, her hair tangled and her skin sallow, she was beautiful, and her smile made his breath hitch.

“Hello,” he greeted a little giddily. _She’s safe. She’ll be fine._

“Why are you here?” she asked again, her voice still weak but her mind ever curious.

He brought their entwined fingers to his lips and kissed her hand gently, hiding his face.

“I was scared I would never see you again”, he admitted in a whisper. He swallowed thickly. “I couldn’t stay away. I- I love you, Anne.”

Anne gasped softly, her smile disappearing. For a second, Gilbert was afraid he had said something truly wrong, voicing feelings she wasn’t ready to accept yet. But another smile replaced it, a wider, truer smile that seemed to come from deep in her soul. Her eyes crinkled at the corners and she sighed as she looked at him.

“You love me?” she asked, more to herself than at him, but he was glad to repeat himself.

“I do.”

He hoped she would remember this come morning. If she didn’t, he would repeat it again, and again, and again, as often as she let him.

Her eyes were fluttering again, closing despite her best effort.

“You can sleep,” he told her. “I’m right here.”

She nodded happily and was asleep in seconds. As he stood watch over the girls, deep in slumber, Gilbert thought once again of Sleeping Beauty and her prince – he couldn’t have been happier than Gilbert was in that instant. Raising his head to the sky, he bowed in gratitude for this new miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, life has been pretty hectic for me recently! I hope you liked the chapter, there might be some mistakes because my brain is a little off these days, you can point them out if you notice them, I'll try and reread it tomorrow, but I wanted to get this out to you guys asap!


	14. He makes the storm a calm

Gilbert's vigil had been remiss. Before long he, too, had fallen asleep, one arm curled on the side of the bed with his head resting on it, the other hand tightly wound around Anne's.

He was awoken by a gentle hit on the shoulder, and with a start, saw the bottom of a sculpted wooden cane retreating from view out of the corner of his eye.

"Come with me boy," ordered Josephine's sharp voice.

Instantly, Gilbert's stomach tightened, and he tasted the bitter wash of fear in his throat. He hadn't meant to sully Anne's reputation by implying that there was more between them than... than there was.

Oh, they were friends, that much was true, and yes, he did wish they were so much more, wished for it, prayed for it, ached for it from the very marrow of his bones anytime his eyes landed on her pale, perfect face, anytime he sank into the blue depths of her eyes, anytime he thought of her brilliant mind and of her passion and...

"You really love Anne, don't you?"

Gilbert couldn't deny it. He nodded meekly as they entered the dining room. Josephine took a seat at the table opposite him. He hesitated on the threshold, feeling like a convict about to face the jury, but soon a wide smile stretched the lines of her old cheeks.

"Good," she said with a firm nod. “Sit.”

He obeyed. At a jerk of the woman’s finger, the butler appeared out of the shadows to his right with a tray and sat two steaming cups of tea in front of them. It wasn’t the tea most of Avonlea drank, a dark Assam that came cheap and was drunk quickly, but a fancy British blend that smelled faintly of lemon and flowers. Gilbert inhaled deeply, letting the aroma fill his lungs and soothe his nerves.

“Thank you Rollings,” she dismissed. The man soundlessly left, returning to the shaded kitchen.

“Now, I’m not in favor of telling young people how to live their lives. They have a hard enough time figuring that out without us adults interfering, and to be perfectly frank with you, I’m not usually one to take an interest in them in the first place anyway. But that young girl upstairs has made me remember the dynamism of youth and I care very much about her, so by associating yourself with her as you have so… evidently done tonight,” she said with a grin, and Gilbert felt his cheeks color at the implications, “it is only normal that I take an interest in you. Also, I will admit to being curious. So tell me, what do you plan to do with yourself, young man?”

Gilbert’s mouth fell agape as he struggled with the question. What _did_ he plan to do with himself? He had asked himself just that very often since his father’s passing, and the fact that the answer changed every time he asked didn’t help at all.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “I have just so many…”

He shook his head. It wasn’t laziness or lack of ambition that was strangling his future so, rather the opposite. The world was wide and open and there were so many possibilities that picking just one was hard. He had tried and tried to narrow down the choices but there had been no clean-cut answer at the end.

“I know I want to do something important. Something that matters. I just don’t know what yet.”

The woman nodded.

“The answer will come to you in time,” she declared, a knowing smile on her lips. It felt more like the confession of a similar quest than mystic wisdom or, worse, empty words.

Gilbert’s mind went forward in time again, reaching through the fog for something substantial to grab onto. He could see his own self, the person he was now growing into the person he would become then, a sharper, more defined version of himself, taller, stronger, his personality refined by the years. He knew he was going to be busy once he found his vocation, because obsession was a part of that personality of his – some more charitable souls would call it devotion. Once he gave his soul to something, there was no turning back. His all-consuming attachment to Anne was proof enough of this.

Anne.

His urged his mind forward into the fog. He wanted a family. Some deep part of his memory still remembered the early days of his youth, when all of his many siblings were alive. He always thought of them around the dinner table, eating and laughing and talking together. The image made his heart ache with longing. Yes, he wanted a family, that much was certain. He wanted to know this again. He wanted a full home, laughter and intimacy. Like shadows, unborn children with indistinct faces ran around that table, events that had yet to pass blending together with memories long gone.

But when he looked up, on the other side of that table – and he did look up, looked at Josephine without seeing her, looked up and away into the far future – there was only one person whose shape was clear, whose face was certain. She was older too, but not that different. Her hair had darkened, maybe, her cheeks had filled up with age. Most importantly, she was there. Anne was there. He wanted Anne to be a part of his family. He wanted Anne to _be_ his family, and he hers. He wanted them to build a home together.

Suddenly, this was too much to think about. Suddenly, the happiness of that vision turned heavy and the longing tugged at his heartstrings. Gilbert felt the first tears roll down his cheeks before he even realized he was crying.

"Anne," he cried, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Josephine sighed quietly, and held out a delicately embroidered kerchief. Gilbert took it sheepishly, while he shook with emotion, lips pressed tightly together. The terror he had felt this morning caught back with him, and with each tear that came out of lids, a little of that fear left.

“There, there,” comforted Josephine half-heartedly. “She’s fine, boy, dry your tears.”

“Did the…” started to ask Gilbert, taking in a calming breath before he continued, “did the doctor know what had caused the fever?”

Josephine shook her head. “Not really. She caught a cold recently, which had weakened her. Burton said anything could have caused the fever itself.”

Pensive for an instant, Gilbert’s face dropped immediately when he realized what really lay behind Anne’s mystery illness. His mouth fell opened and his eyes widened in horror as he choked out, “This is my fault.”

This seemed to startle Josephine, who huffed and declared that she didn’t see how any of this could possibly be his fault.

“She’s sick because of me,” insisted Gilbert. “She fell in the pond and she was shivering so hard she couldn’t even speak –”

“I can hardly imagine such a thing,” interjected Josephine in an effort to lessen the evident guilt on Gilbert’s face that she still couldn’t understand.

He didn’t even seem to hear her. “I should have known. I should have – we should have gone with Diana and Jerry, but I wanted to care for her, I wanted to keep her to myself, and now she’s sick and it’s my fault…” he trailed off, pressing his closed fist against his mouth.

“Oh, don’t be absurd!” countered Josephine. “From what my niece told me of this particular adventure, Anne slipped into our pond because of her recklessness. Whatever you may or may not have done after that – and really, it’s none of my business,” she evaded his apologetic interruption with a wave of her hand, “has only saved the girl. Had she been alone, she could have drowned, or fallen asleep in the woods and died of hypothermia.”

Gilbert was speechless for a minute. He was also very, very tired, the last of his energy drained. He finally nodded. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said in a low voice, admitting the truth in the woman’s words.

“Now go get some rest. Rollings,” she called, “could you show this young man to the second guest room?”

“Certainly,” replied the butler who had once again materialized out of the shadows. Gilbert, too exhausted to startle, thanked Josephine again as he rose, and followed Rollings upstairs. It came to no surprise to him that he wasn’t permitted to spend the night in the same room as Anne, and Diana’s presence beside her reassured him. He sank fully clothed in what was the softest bed he had ever lain on, and, like one of those wonderful electric lights, his mind turned off instantly and let sleep claim him.

 

When he woke up, Gilbert took a long while to remember where he was, and why his body ached like this. His back felt stiff and sore, not with physical exertion but with the memory of tension. The rays of a morning sun were coming in through thick pressed velvet curtains, and gleamed off golden lamps and porcelain vases. It felt like waking up in a dream, after a long evening of nightmares.

Then he remembered, and bolted upright with a gasp. The heavy down comforter fell to his waist with a hush. He clambered out of bed and ran out of the room and straight into the silent butler. The man, a good head taller than him, barely wavered, but Gilbert saw stars and needed a second to remembered where it was that he was running to in the first place.

“Anne!” he said by way of explanation for his conduct.

The impassible butler nodded reassuringly. “She has awoken at dawn and ate a light breakfast. She is currently resting again, but the fever has abated.”

Gilbert let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“She’s alright.”

“Yes, I believe she is,” agreed a voice coming up the stairs.

Gilbert smiled at Josephine, a wide, relieved smile that did more to endear him to the woman than any word could have.

“Come and get some breakfast too,” she said. “You can see her later.”

“I’m very sorry but I can’t stay for very long,” announced Gilbert once he had drunk some coffee and eaten a piece of bread. It was his habit to use the time of breakfast to think of the day ahead, and as he was chewing, he remembered the cats he had abandoned the day before. The kittens would probably be fine, fed and looked after by their mother, but who would look after her? She couldn’t well leave them to go on the hunt for mice. Gilbert couldn’t even remember if he had left a window open for her to slither through or not.

He explained the situation and Josephine nodded, surprised but not unsympathetic. “I understand. Well, you can say your goodbyes to the girls and catch the 10am train back to Avonlea.”

While he knew that he didn’t have much choice if he wanted to go back today, but a quick glance at the marble clock on the mantle told him that 10am was barely an hour away, and it felt too soon to leave. He remained torn for a moment, his face twisting as if to reflect his inner dilemma. Josephine reached across the table like the day before, and patted his hand briefly.

“She’ll be in good hands, boy. Despite what many rumors might have suggested, I am no witch and I have never eaten a child. Yet,” she joked.

Gilbert smiled despite himself.

He went up the stairs, his stomach full and his fears appeased. Diana was sitting beside Anne’s bed but rose when he knocked.

“Hello, Gilbert.”

“Hi Diana. Did you manage to sleep last night?” he asked, the girl’s eyes still darkened by shadows.

“A little. Well, barely,” she admitted. They shared a knowing smile, and both looked at the sleeping redhead who snored right at that moment. They laughed quietly.

“I’m going back to Avonlea today,” said Gilbert after a silence.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I have some… obligations that force me to go back.”

Diana frowned in curiosity, but Gilbert winked and brought his index to his lips. “It’s a surprise,” he said. She frowned again, her curiosity only increasing. Gilbert drew closer, in case Anne was awake and listening. He wanted to tell her himself, so she couldn’t overhear what he was about to whisper: “I adopted a cat, who just had kittens.”

Diana gasped in pure delight. “Oh please,” she said, before lowering her voice and asking in hushed tones, “could I please have one when they’re weaned off? If mother agrees, of course.”

“Yeah, sure. You can take your pick when you come back.”

Her eyes glittered with promised joy. “Thank you, Gilbert!”

“Gilbert?” asked Anne from the bed, eyelids heavy, her voice thick with sleep.

He left Diana who had clasped her hands together and was already thinking of cat names, and came up to the bed, boldly sitting on its side.

“Hello,” he greeted.

Anne smiled softly, and his heart soared.

“I hear your fever has gone down.”

She nodded. “I almost feel like myself again.”

“Good,” he said flatly, losing himself in contemplation of her face. Even thin and pale with sickness, even half-asleep and blinking, she was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. She looked into his eyes in return, and for a long moment, they said nothing, breathing in unison.

Thinking of the time, Gilbert turned aside and took her hand lightly in his.

“I have to go back to Avonlea today. Well, now,” he corrected, jerking his head toward the door.

Anne pouted, and while it never brought him any pleasure to cause her sadness, a small part of him was, if not glad, at least relieved to see she was as eager for his presence as he was for hers.

“But I’ll see you soon. Get well, and come back to m- to us, alright?” he asked.

She nodded resolutely. “I will.”

Gilbert smiled. Glancing at Diana who was inconspicuously absorbed in the intense study of a painting, he brought the hand he was holding to his lips once again and kissed the gossamer skin on her knuckles. _I love you,_ he mouthed, releasing her fingers. Anne’s eyes crinkled at the corner, and he thought of the night before, of how he hoped to see lines dug there one day from a lifetime of happiness at his side.  

She didn’t say the words _Me too_ out loud either, merely formed them on her perfect lips, but he heard them all the same. He raised a hand and caressed her cheek briefly, her eyes fluttering close.

“Rest, now,” he said. He rose from the bed and Diana turned toward them again, her cheeks pink.

“Have a safe journey back, Gilbert.”

“Thank you. Take care of yourselves,” he answered, before catching Diana’s eye. “Get some rest too,” he added in a lower voice. She promised she would, and with a last look at the bed and a last goodbye, Gilbert was out of the room.

Josephine was waiting for him by the door. His bag, untouched, was where he had dropped it the day before, by the umbrella stand. He picked it up and bowed slightly toward the woman who had been so generous to them all.

“Thank you so m-”

“Bah!” she cut him off. “I care for that girl as much as you do. Well, maybe not _as_ _much_ ,” she corrected with a conspiratorial smile. Gilbert blushed. “But I do care for her and it is a pleasure to have her under my roof no matter what state she’s in. You’re welcome here too, by the way. You seem like a very reasonable boy and I look forward to seeing what becomes of you. I believe Anne will keep me up to date on that even if you don’t,” she teased.

Gilbert’s blushed deepened but there was no accusation in the woman’s tone. Now he knew what Anne saw in her.

Having nothing left to say, he bid his goodbyes to his kind host and her strange butler. He was glad to entrust Anne to them. She really was in good hands, until she could be back in his arms again.

As he walked toward the train station, his head was full of the future – their future.


End file.
